More
by netherfield
Summary: LL. A series of standalone Season Five episode additions. Now Complete. Followup 'S'More' for Season six also up.
1. Goodbye

Don't own these characters, so why do I keep writing for them? It's a little sad, don't you think?

5.01: _Say Goodbye to Daisy Miller _addition. LL. Another call. A few weeks later.

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"So, are you wearing plaid man-tights right now?"

"_Lorelai_?"

"Do you have another woman calling you these days?"

"None that are incapable of a simple civil greeting."

"So you should have known it was me then."

"Well, you got me there."

"I often confound with my rapier-like logic."

"That's one way of putting it."

"But I gotta know; Is Liz still surfing the internet for the plaid man-tights?"

"She is bored out of her skull and TJ is just plain boring. And stop saying man-tights."

"Sorry. I meant 'air pants'... So, how are you holding up?"

"You know that French king who died from a javelin in the eye?"

"That bad?"

"My hero now."

"Oh, poor thing!"

"A woman tried to barter with me today: Two pewter tankards for two pairs of chandeliers and one pair of teardrop."

"I had no idea the Renaissance Fair circuit was so dog eat dog. So, what did you do?"

"I said 'No way,' of course, 'At the most: One pair chandelier and one pair of studs.'"

"Dirty! And I am more than slightly disturbed by your intimate knowledge of earrings, by the way."

"Yeah, well... intimate knowledge... can come in real handy."

"When wooing women?"

"Among other things."

"I see."

"So..."

"So..."

"Have you heard from Rory?"

"Briefly."

"Things going any better with you two?"

"Mildly. I wish I could talk to you about it."

"That's okay. I understand."

"I mean I really do."

"Well, I'm glad..."

"Glad?"

"Glad that you want to talk to me..."

"We've been doing a lot of talking these past few weeks..."

"Yes, we have."

"I mean, I now know your middle name. After knowing you for a million years, I now know your middle name. You never told me that before."

"You never asked."

"Yeah, well it's kind of a girlfriend-late-night-under-the-covers sort of a question, isn't it?"

"Hmmm... I wouldn't know."

"Very gallant."

"Well, it's easy when you're living in a Motel Six."

"Hmmm... Romantic. Oscar Wilde died in a cheap hotel room, you know."

"Let's hope I don't meet the same fate."

"His dying words were, 'Either that wallpaper goes or I do'."

"The guy had his priorities straight."

"Yes, he did... Luke... I..."

"What?..."

"I miss you, that's all... I mean we haven't even really started this, and I miss you."

"I miss you too."

"Is this too quick?"

"Quick? Us? How long have we known each other?"

"Well a long time, but then again we've never really _known_ each other... have we?"

"Hmmm... Should I say 'Dirty!' now?"

"If that's the direction your mind is going..."

"I think I'm going in just the right direction... finally... and, Thank God. What do you think?"

"That men like you don't usually like to ask for directions."

"Well, maybe I'm different."

"Maybe you are."

"So..."

"So... I should let you get to sleep, Mr. Danes..."

"I don't want to sleep."

"Me either... Will you call me tomorrow?"

"Absolutely. If I don't club the juggler with a turkey leg first."

"Right... well..."

"What?"

"Just, hurry home."

"I've got the truck idling..."

"Good."

"Good."

"'Night, Luke."

"'Night, Lorelai."


	2. Messenger

5.02 _A Messenger, Nothing More_

Episode addition. Luke and Lorelai 'hook up' later on.

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_She looked up at him, her neck resting in the crook of his arm. He was as close as he could be to her, on his side, next to her. The bed was warm, the sheets smooth on their skin. The room was light enough that she could see into his eyes, the corners crinkled into the lines that meant he was smiling. She closed her eyes and breathed in then as his hand continued to gently stroke her belly then move slowly... agonizingly slowly... lower..._

"Lorelai?"

She squeezed her eyes more tightly closed.

"Lorelai?"

Why did her neck hurt?

"Lorelai?"

She opened her eyes, lifted her head from her desk and looked up into those same smiling crinkle-edged eyes.

A dream.

"Luke?" she doubled checked groggily.

"Are you okay?" he asked from the other side of the desk where he stood looking down at her.

She rubbed her eyes and leaned back into her chair, arms crossed over her chest. _A dream._

"I'm fine. Must've drifted off."

He nodded in concern.

"So, what are you doing here?" she went on brightly, trying to deflect from the sleeping and The Dream and, _Oh God, had she drooled?_ "I thought we were going to meet at The Diner at ten."

"We were," he told her.

"What time is it?" she asked, catching on.

"Eleven."

"What?" she sat up straighter to look at the clock on the wall. "Oh Jeez, I'm sorry Luke." She rubbed her hands at her temples.

"It's okay," he assured her. "Sookie called me to get you."

"She did?"

"She didn't want me to call the house and wake Rory and you left your cell at the front desk."

"Oh. I see."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes. I'm fine. Just tired. I'm sorry I missed our date. Rory fell asleep from the jet lag and... well, everything that's been going on... So I thought I'd get some work done before I came to see you..."

"It's okay, Lorelai, really. Could I walk you home now?"

"That would be great."

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"It's a beautiful night," she said as they stepped out onto the front porch, "The air feels so cool and clean."

"Fall is coming," he agreed and turned to smile at her. She smiled back and he quietly took her hand as they started down the drive.

"So, TJ and Liz are okay?"

"They're doing better. TJ's whine was at full-blown roar by the time I left."

"Good."

Luke eyed her quietly as they walked toward her home in the night light. Half moon, half street lamp.

"Sookie said you've been working too much this summer," he began.

"Yeah well, Sookie's a cheese eater," she groused.

"She didn't rat you out. She's worried about you," he countered.

"Well, I'm fine. Really."

He seemed willing to accept that for the moment.

They continued to make their way, the gravel crunching under their feet as they went.

"Lorelai," he stopped finally and turned to her, "I need to say... Well, there was a lot of talk in The Diner this afternoon..."

She pulled her hand away from his then, crossed her arms over her chest again and looked away, "I heard an owl out here the other night," she said, "At least I think it was an owl. But I kept picturing a little cartoon in a tree wearing a mortar board and trying to count how many licks it takes to get--"

"Lorelai..."

"I know, I know, you heard 'talk'..."

"Not good talk," he told her.

"Was it about us?" she asked hopefully.

He placed his hands gently on her upper arms and willed her to look him in the eye again.

"No," he said.

Lorelai nodded and felt a familiar burning in her eyes.

"Luke, I can't... I can't talk to you about this..."

"Okay," he sighed, "Just... If you need me to do anything... Anything. I'm your man. Am I making my message clear?"

She looked up at him and smiled through her blurry vision, "Loud and clear. You are my man."

"Right."

He pulled her in and slipped an arm around her shoulders then as they made their way down to the street.

And soon they were at her door and kissing softly on the front step. Hands stroking down backs and slipping through hair.

"Will you come in? In the morning? Have breakfast with me?" he finally whispered.

"Yes," she smiled.

"Get some sleep," he told her with one last stroke of his fingers through her hair, before heading back to the diner.

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Wearily he climbed the stairs to his apartment and before long was stretched out on the bed... He'd see her in the morning, he thought with a smile....

_His hand slid up the smoothness of her skin... it was softer than he had ever let himself consider... He dared to go further then, gently cupping her breast and bringing his lips down her neck ... He almost came undone as her breathy sigh became a moan..._ _He brought his lips lower then..._


	3. Written

5.03 **_Written in the Stars_ **scene additions. I do not own these characters or the lines I have gratefully borrowed from Amy Sherman-Palladino. It is only homage.

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**At Lorelai's front step, after Luke hands her into the truck....**

"We'll get better at this..." she laughed nervously through the window.

"Yeah," he responded quickly.

She let out a deep breath then and watched him as he hurried around the front of the truck and got in.

She placed a hand on his forearm then as he switched the ignition on.

"Hey," she said gently.

He looked over at her. At her sort of all-over glow in the reflected porch light. At her small smile.

"Hey," he repeated, just as softly, as they looked at one another.

"I'm so glad that we..."

"Me too..."

"I mean... Finally! Here we are," she laughed a little.

"Here we are," he agreed, very aware of her hand on his arm.

They looked at each other a moment longer until one, or both, (it doesn't really matter which) leaned in for a soft brief kiss.

She sighed as she pulled away, more relaxed and more aware of him at the same time.

"That was nice," she breathed before adding with a smile, "Do you think we'll survive this night?"

"I have to second the 'nice' part," he said and took a deep breath of his own, "And I think we're both going to do much better than survive," he added with a wink.

She smiled back, glad to re-connect just like they always did. And anyway, where was it written that they shouldn't? Shouldn't be like always. Only better now, she thought with a smile.

"So, where are you taking me?" she asked as he shifted the truck into gear.

"It's killing you not to know, isn't it?" he laughed.

"Oh no, I am perfectly prepared to be patient and wait for the surprise. Good things come to those who wait."

"God, I hope so," he intoned.

"It has been a long, hard, hot summer," she flirted.

"You have no idea," he returned.

She smiled at that too.

"So? Where again are you taking me?" she asked.

"Why don't you just play with the radio and mock my pre-set stations until we get there? That ought to occupy you. Make the time go faster."

"Oh, you spoil me!" she smiled in delight and eagerly leaned forward to do just that.

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**Seated at Sniffy's Tavern...**

"....I just want you to know, I'm in. I am _all_ in..."

She felt her stomach clench, but continued to meet his gaze and... breathe. Try to breathe anyway.

"...Does that---? ... Are you... Scared?" He'd tapped the table nervously with his finger, but held his voice steady.

And then he waited. And felt his stomach clench though he managed to continue to hold her gaze and... breathe. Try to breath anyway.

And here they were. With this moment... Both of them. With just these words between them... And when these words had been spoken with such conviction and in such a way (the voice _not_ _quite _cracking, and only a slight nervous hand gesture as accompaniment)... And when it had _meant_ and had so permeated the air and her circulatory system (her blood moving more quickly and warmly, a flush rising to her cheeks even now).... And finally, when these words made their way to her head too, she lowered her eyes briefly, before lifting them again to meet his...

"Terrified," she almost-whispered with a smile. But her eyes had met his again. And directly.

He smiled back in relief, chuckled a little, "That's okay," he assured her, "So am I. But, like I said earlier, I think we'll do much better than mere survival with this."

She nodded, scarcely letting herself believe or wonder or contemplate beyond this moment, because she just didn't do that. Not in these situations. Others, sure. She could plan for her Ivy League daughter. She could plan an Inn, an event, or when to have coffee... But she had never really thought _beyond _in this sort of situation. Had, in fact, never allowed herself to do so. Because in her life (before this moment, before these words,) it would have been disaster to think beyond. It _had_ been disaster, thinking beyond.

And she absolutely could not allow disaster now. Not with Luke.

"I marvel at you," she said then after a moment. "I just..._ marvel _at you, Luke."

He thrilled at that.

"You are so sure..." she went on.

"About you, yes, I think I am. About how I feel. But there are still... uncertainties..."

"Me?" she asked with a small smile.

"I understand that this is... newer for you," he allowed.

"So, one step at a time then?"

He nodded, "Absolutely. I just... I just needed you to know... that this is different... for me."

"This is different," she agreed, "for me too."

Luke breathed out.

There. Done. Said. The line cast. Nothing left but to sit back, and watch, and wait, and try to be aware this time of the little signs. The little signs that something was stirring beneath the water. Something elusive and silver and shining. Something worthwhile and wanted. Longed for even. He could do that. He could wait. He had waited before, only this time he had taken action first. Whatever came now there would never be regrets on this front.

Meanwhile it was a beautiful night, and here he was with the most beautiful woman he knew. In the closest place to home he had. And for now, that was more than enough.

He glanced at her again then and swallowed as she met his gaze. He took in the way her white neck curved down to the line of her breasts and disappeared into her ruffled blouse. And her uncharacteristic vulnerability in the way she moistened her lips and lowered her eyes... and smiled tenderly in that rare big-eyed way that had nothing to do with the smart-ass Lorelai he well knew was on the flip side of this coin. He marveled then too; At how he knew everything and nothing about her at once.

And where was it written that he couldn't know it all? he wondered. All of her. All of himself _with _her too. Why couldn't he? Why couldn't they? Just, why not?

And then he couldn't believe how happy he was, how _aware_ of that happiness he was and how that was something that just never happened to him. Not for longer than he cared to remember at any rate.

"Lucas," Buddy interrupted their moment with a quick look over his shoulder, "I brought you your beer. Maisie'll kill me, but I couldn't let the champagne kill you first!"

They broke away then from their thoughts, and fear, and longing, and happiness too, and all that was known and unknown between them, to laugh a little.

"Thanks, Buddy," smiled Luke as the older man poured the beer into a glass for him.

"Yeah well, I say that any girl worth her salt isn't going to make a man drink champagne when there's good beer to be had," Buddy stated surely.

"Here! Here!" agreed Lorelai.

Buddy looked up at Lorelai to smile before turning to Luke again. "Looks like this one's worth her salt, Lucas. And what did you do to get one so beautiful?"

Luke lifted his hands in mock surrender, "It had nothing to do with me!"

"What had nothing to do with you?" demanded Maisie as she approached the table again, "Buddy! What is _that_ right there?!"

"Well, that's a beer, Maisie. New to the world of beverages, are you?" He slipped a wink to Lorelai.

"I know it's a beer, Buddy. But they're on a date."

"Lorelai doesn't care," Buddy returned.

"I'm worth my salt!" Lorelai told her proudly.

"Is there any point to us placing some orders now?" asked Luke.

"Oh! Did you teach Luke how to make his heavenly hamburgers?"

"None whatsoever, Lucas. And yes, as a matter of fact I did, Lorelai. He must've burned three-hundred pounds of ground beef before getting the knack," returned Maisie blandly. "Buddy's already started your dinner, Kids, which he better get back to unless he wants to wash the dishes tonight!"

"I'm on my way!" said Buddy with a salute and hurried off.

Maisie watched him go, "Never get tired of watching that man run. Sexy!" she sighed.

Lorelai dropped her jaw then and turned to grin at Luke in delight. He chuckled and shrugged in response.

"Earth to Maisie," Luke called her out of her revery.

"Sorry Kids," Maisie turned back to them, "Didn't mean to get distracted, but with a run like that, you just gotta watch. You should have seen that man play basketball... Anyway... Now Lorelai, you're not one of these women who only eats sushi and raw vegetables, are you?"

"Did I not just mention my hamburger love? Besides, I make it a point to never eat anything that could be used successfully as bait," stated Lorelai unequivocally.

"My kind of gal," Maisie nodded approvingly before looking at Luke, "Yours too, hunh Lucas?"

"Maisie..." Luke began to protest but then changed his mind, "Yeah, mine too," he admitted and looked at Lorelai again. Still sure.

"Here's to you then, _Lucas_---The bravest guy I know," smiled Lorelai and lifted her glass to him.

Luke smiled and lifted his glass of beer to meet it, "I'll drink to that!"

Maisie smiled and slipped away.

"Brave, hunh?" asked Luke with a smile after they'd sipped their toast.

"Oh, absolutely," nodded Lorelai, "What you've said here tonight takes more courage than trying on bikinis in March, my friend."

"Wouldn't know about that."

"Well, trust me," Lorelai nodded authoritatively.

"I do," he assured her.

"That probably takes the most courage of all," she said just a little sadly.

"So, here you go," smiled Buddy as he sat plates of salad before them, "Main course be up in a bit."

"Buddy!" yelled Maisie from the bar, "Don't forget the rolls!"

"You'd think I'd never done this before," mumbled Buddy as he headed back to the kitchen. "Only got two hands, Maisie!" he called back as he went.

Lorelai grinned, "I love them."

"They're pretty lovable," agreed Luke as he reached for the salt and pepper, "Annoying as hell but lovable."

"I believe 'annoying as hell' is what you like best," she said knowingly, "Besides, they're your family."

Luke looked up quickly at that thought.

"Sometimes," she went on as she poked a fork into her salad, "Sometimes, it's the family you _choose_ in this life—especially when your own are gone or are... inaccessible... Sometimes it's this chosen family that... well, that just _is _family, you know?" She looked at him again.

Luke cleared his throat, feeling the new emotions again, "I do. I do know," he agreed and reached his thumb over to wipe a bit of dressing off the corner of her lip.

As he pulled his hand away, she caught it with hers and discreetly licked it off.

Luke swallowed, hard.

"I'm having a wonderful time," she told him.

"Good. Me too," he agreed. "And wait until you see the dessert tray," he said as he took a calming breath and returned to his salad, "You're going to be a very happy woman."

"Is that your secret plan? To ply me with dessert?"

"Yep."

"Yeah, that should work," she nodded approvingly, "Dessert on top of that horoscope thing. Napoleon would admire such strategy."

"I like to be prepared," he agreed with a humble shrug.

"That's my brave little Boy Scout."

"Soup's on!" said Buddy brightly as the waitress by his side swept away their salad plates. Buddy replaced them immediately with steaming platters. "There. Let me know if you want something else. Did you say Boy Scouts just now, Lorelai? We tried to get Lucas here to join when he was a kid, but he wouldn't. Said it was a paramilitary organization. And fascist. Nine years old. You were the damndest kid." he said to Luke then.

"Oh! Do you have any pictures?" asked Lorelai with an eager smile.

"Well," Buddy scratched his chin, "Let me think..."

"No. He doesn't," said Luke with determination.

"Oh come on, Buddy," wheedled Lorelai, "Just a snapshot or two?"

"Oh, maybe one from that Halloween party we had for the kids that time. Do you remember that, Luke? That was the year before..."

"Before my mother died," finished Luke. "I remember."

"Did _you _dress up?"

"Of course he did, all the kids did.... I'm just trying to remember what you were... We must have a picture somewhere... I'll have to ask Maisie," he said thoughtfully.

"Don't you have some customers to cook for?" grumped Luke.

"Keep thinking, Buddy!" said Lorelai merrily.

"Maisie!" called Luke a little desperately as she walked nearby.

"Buddy, come away from there! Let those kids alone. They're on a date."

"Well, sorry Lorelai. I've been caught."

"That's okay, Buddy. Some other time," she smiled as he hurried away.

Luke eyed her, "Don't start," he warned.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she told him sweetly.

"Ummhmm."

"Luke," she said as she looked down at her plate.

"What?"

"My hamburger is roast beef."

"That's okay. So's my salmon."

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"Ah, Geez. Will you let it go already..." said Luke later as they made their way back down the highway in the truck.

"Mr. Spock! You were _Mr. Spock_!" she repeated in gleeful disbelief.

"Lorelai, I was nine years old."

"Mr. Spock. And not just any Mr. Spock. First season _green_ Mr Spock."

"I'll have you know that my mother worked very hard on that costume," he informed her.

"I could tell. The way the little doubleknit black pants flared 'just so' mid-calf. Very authentic."

"Ah, Geez..."

Lorelai laughed and Luke had to smile a little at the sound of it.

"Hey, do you want coffee?" he asked with a sideways glance.

"Always," she assured him.

"The diner?"

"The diner," she nodded happily.

"Oh crap, I just remembered..."

"What?"

"Football practice night."

"Oh, right. Diner chock full of hormones."

"And nickle tippers," he groused.

"Poor Lane."

"We could... go upstairs..." he offered and looked over at her again.

She grinned, "Napoleon is looking down in sheer admiration at your maneuvers tonight, Mr. Danes."

"I didn't.. Lorelai, I didn't mean..."

"The horoscope. A five pound chocolate dessert. Coffee. And then arranging for the entire highschool football team to have practice on this specific night before coming to fill up your diner and eat fries... Genius... All just to get little old me up into your apartment."

"Yeah, you've found me out all right."

"You really didn't have to work so hard, you know," she told him.

"Oh really?"

"Oh yeah, I would have come upstairs just to see your non-existent etchings.."

"I see..."

"Or, what's that other old one? Watch the submarine races...?"

"Ha. Ha." he responded drily.

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It was a sort of meeting of minds. Or hearts maybe. More likely libidos, but by the time they had crossed the Stars' Hollow town line they were both silent. Not uncomfortably so. Not at all. Just quiet. Quiet together. Which was new for them, but somehow right. And, of course they were both thinking about it. How could they not? It was a starry night. They'd been to Sniffy's and things had been said. What was left?

And by the time Luke had parked in front of the diner and Lorelai watched him come round to hand her out, they both knew what was ahead. They just did.

Simply because it was next. And time. Eight years and one date later. It was time.

And she didn't let go of his hand as they walked into the crowded diner and wound their way through the busy tables. Lorelai stood quietly at the counter then, watching Luke fill a mug of coffee and one of tea, and clutching the bag holding the chilled champagne ('Buddy doesn't know anything about romance!' Maisie had sniffed when she had forced it on them before they left, with more brownies too, 'Except where it counts, if you know what I mean,' she's added with a wink. Lorelai did know. 'Still these men can use all the help they can get. Love you, Lucas,' she'd said then. And Lorelai caught her breath at Luke's simply given hug and 'Love you too' returned.)

Of course it was time.

And then, as they wordlessly climbed the stairs for some reason she resisted the urge to tease Luke about the cheerleaders she'd just seen checking him out in the diner. Another sign.

For his part, Luke quietly climbed the stairs to the apartment behind her, knowing as well as she what was ahead, and relishing it while openly watching the way her jeans hugged and the smooth lines of her bare shoulders shone in the amber hall light. And felt the wanting of her twitch within.

God, was it ever time.

Once within, Lorelai switched on a lamp and tossed her jacket onto a chair without a word while Luke, as if by mutual consent, opened the bottle of champagne.

She sipped her coffee with a smile as she watched him pour it into juice glasses.

"You don't have to drink it for me," she told him.

He looked up at her as he shrugged out of his own jacket, "It's growing on me," he told her and crossed around the table to hand her a glass. She put down her mug and accepted it.

"To Buddy and Maisie," she said.

"I'll drink to that," he said, and did.

Lorelai met his eyes then.

"So..." she said and began a slow observational saunter around the room, "Love what you've done to the place."

"You've been here a hundred times before. It's the same."

"I was never here before as 'the girlfriend' though," she told him and bent to peer at a photograph on an end table.

"Does that make things any different?" he asked as he sipped the champagne again. He was happy to watch her bend and walk and move and touch things... for now.

"Oh, yes," she told him. "My recently acquired 'Girlfriend Vision' gives me a whole new insight to things," she added as she kicked off her shoes and looked about further.

"Such as?" he queried.

"Well, such as the fact that Luke would never buy sofa cushions for himself with pictures of fish and river stones on them. Only someone who knows him well would give these to him. Someone who knows he not only likes fishing but also needed sofa cushions. And, as the girlfriend, I have to start wondering just who knows you that well... Clearly it was a woman."

"So 'Girlfriend Vision' is a kind of state of paranoia that creates unnecessary jealousy?"

"Shut up or I might have to rifle through your briefcase too," she told him with a smile.

"And why would you do that?"

"Well, duh, to read your credit card statements—See if you've bought any expensive lingerie for other women, of course."

"Well, Man of the World that I am, I think my new, and only, (though psychotic) girlfriend is safe on that front. And it was Maisie."

"What was?"

"She made the fishing pillows for me for Christmas a few years ago."

"Ah," nodded Lorelai and continued her nosey turn around the room, "Now here is something! Something very new indeed!" she exclaimed then.

Luke looked down and briefly tugged on his ear, "Yeah.. well..."

"A double bed. Luke has a double bed. A beautiful antique double bed at that."

"It's just an old piece from the house I grew up in. I have some stuff, old furniture and such, stored in my Dad's garage. I thought maybe..."

He looked at her then and she at him.

"You thought maybe... what?"

"That it was..."

"Time?" she asked quietly.

"Yes."

She nodded, "I see," she said and looked at the bed again, "I think those flannel sheets might just be the cutest things I ever saw."

"They're just sheets, Lorelai. They're not cute."

"I beg to differ. They _are_ cute. They are cute plaid _flannel _sheets. Cute _red_ plaid flannel sheets. And all those pillows..." she went on in amazement.

"Well, you like pillows."

She looked up at him for a moment, "I do. I do like pillows. I can't believe that you know me so well and still want to be with me," she told him quietly.

"That doesn't sound like the Lorelai I know," frowned Luke.

"Well, perhaps there are actually some things about Lorelai that you haven't seen yet," she told him, and then flushed, "Dirty?" she asked nervously.

He set his glass down on the table with some deliberation then and crossed over to her and took hers away to set on the nightstand before gently placing his hands on her shoulders.

"Are you okay?" he asked gently.

"I'm... I'm a little overwhelmed to tell you the truth," she admitted and blinked up at him.

He nodded, "You know there's no reason to be, right? You know that this is just me. Just us. Just you and I, and whatever happens or doesn't won't change that a bit."

She nodded, "But it will," she whispered.

"It won't. I won't let it," he assured.

And then he slid his hands up from her shoulders to cup her face. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes in response then and felt his lips lightly brush hers. When she opened her eyes again to look up at him, he was smiling.

"So is this new bed (this new _wider _bed) an example of you 'Always Being Prepared?' Or does it tie in more to the 'All in' thing?" she asked huskily.

"Both," he said as he closed in on her mouth again, "And, 'Dirty!'"

She giggled into his lips at that until his deepening of the kiss and hands gently stroking lower on her back shut her up.

And so they were kissing and stroking and sighing, and it was all about what they were feeling now. About the desire churning and the juices flowing until finally she gently pushed away to look at him.

"Too much?" he asked trying to catch his breath.

She shook her head. "No, I just need... Just a moment..." she breathed.

"Okay."

"Um... More champagne? Please?" she asked.

He nodded and turned to retrieve the bottle from the table. When he came back she smiled and held out her glass to be filled. She took a deep sip as he set the bottle down.

"Luke," she began, "I am on the pill."

He nodded.

"You knew?" she asked, a flush rising to her face.

"Lorelai, it's a small town. I've fixed your bathroom... And did I mention that I've known you for eight years?"

"Right," she nodded uncomfortably, "Okay." and turned away from him to set her glass down. "I just... it's important to me that you know that. Because of my... fertility history.." she finished weakly.

"Lorelai," he said as he touched her arm for her to look up at him, "I don't want you to feel... We don't have to..."

"But we do," she said definitively, "And, I want to. Very much. You're pretty hard to resist, Lucas."

"Okay," he smiled softly, and, "Good."

"Because," she straightened her shoulders, "I want you to know, Mr. Danes, that I'm in. I am _all_ in."

She stepped away from him then, took in his surprised face, smiled and simply said, "Watch."

And he did. He could hardly fricking breathe, but he did. He watched as she slowly unzipped and slipped out of her jeans and he felt his arousal pressing forward as he caught sight, finally, of how unbelievably beautiful she was. Her long legs, her skin, the scrap of nude lace peeking out from beneath her blouse. She stepped over to him then and kissed him softly and that was it. That was the real beginning...

Soon they were both on the bed, clothes peeled away between laughs and kisses and gasps...

"My God, look at you," he told her happily.

"You're amazing," she smiled up at him.

"You're beautiful," he breathed, and buried his lips into her neck while stroking up to cup her breast.

"Yes.." she sighed out her response, arching up to meet him.

And it was tender. He, taking his maddeningly delicious time to stroke and kiss and lick her into on-the-edge arousal. She, writhing and so incredibly responsive beneath his ministrations, before he finally slid home to begin building it all even further and waiting even then, holding on for her crash over the edge, before following. It being all the better for having done so.

And later as they lay in the small apartment above the diner, lit only from stars and such outside, she could not seem to get enough of touching him, of stroking his skin...

"I can't believe you kept that horoscope...." she told him.

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**Still in bed, finishing the list...**

"My turn now!" she said happily, and snatched the notebook away from him.

"Your turn for what?" he laughed.

"To write down something for you, of course," she replied as she sat up. She chewed the pen thoughtfully for a moment. "Luke, what can I do for you?" she turned to ask. "What makes you happy?"

He took in the sight of Lorelai sitting up in his bed, nude.

"This," he said with a smile.

"I don't think I can make a list out of this," she frowned. "You want me to itemize new positions to learn or something?" She laughed.

Luke rolled his eyes.

"Okay, okay... we'll start with something small first. I know! Tea! You like tea. Give me the instructions to make you tea!" she demanded.

"You need to _write down_ how to make tea?" he asked.

She stared at him. He sighed.

"Brewed or bags?" he asked.

"Well, brewed of course," she said indignantly, "Any idiot knows how to open up a tea bag and dump it into a cup."

He looked at her, "Tell me you're kidding," he said.

She smiled at him and threw the notebook to the floor.

"So _this_ is what makes you happy?" she asked and lifted the sheet to sit astride him.

"Dear God, _yes_," he breathed and reached up to pull her down atop him.

"Should I be writing this down?" she giggled before he rolled her right under him.

"Shut up," he said before kissing her.

And they began again.

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**The next morning...**

"_I'm _getting your coffee," he realized groggily and got up to pull on some jeans and a flannel. When he turned around she had collapsed back onto the bed a was a hugging a pillow close. He took a moment to look at her as he buttoned the shirt.

God, but she was beautiful.....

"Coffeeeeeeeee!" she wailed.

"Right," he said and hurried down to the diner.

When he returned he heard the shower running. Damn... he'd hoped to coax her into staying longer.

When she emerged in her previous night's jeans and his shirt again, she accepted the coffee and had the manners to kiss him sweetly before sitting down across from him at the table and greedily gulping it down.

"So..." he began, "Are we okay?"

She smiled, "Absolutely."

"Good."

"So, I was in your shower thinking just now."

"Thinking? What about?"

"Well, first of all about how incredibly soft your towels are. Way to go on the thread count there, Mister."

"Thank you. I think."

"I mean you'd think a strapping gruff guy like you would towel off with sandpaper or something. Not Egyptian cotton."

"Strapping?" he quirked a brow in amusement.

"Then I started thinking about the horoscope."

"Lorelai, I _wasn't_ pining..."

"Yeah, yeah. Thou dost protesteth too much, methinks."

"I have _begged_ you not to talk that way anymore."

"Right. Sorry. Where was I?"

"Thinking."

"Right. And I realized that I have something to confess to you."

"Really?" he asked with interest.

"Yes."

"Well, what is it?" he asked leaning forward.

She took another sip of coffee before beginning. "About six years ago I was making a Crazy Quilt. You know, the one hanging on the stair landing?"

He nodded.

"We-ell," she smiled sheepishly, "I was having a hard time finding all the fabrics I wanted for the pieces..."

"Okay...." he said in confusion.

"Um... do you remember that spring coming over to fix the dryer for me?"

"I think so."

"And it suddenly got really hot out, though it had been cool that morning, and you took off your flannel to just your t-shirt."

"If you say so."

"You did. First time I caught sight of that tattoo, by the way. Enough to make a girl swoon, that was."

"Really?" he grinned. "You were swooning over me six years ago?"

"Well... "she looked down into her cup, "I have definitely, through the years, had moments where you have... bothered me."

"Bothered you?"

"Yes, bothered me. Is there an echo in here?" she said in exasperation.

"Bothered how?" he asked with smiling interest.

"Well, let's just say not in the 'It's-a-windy-day-and-my-hair-is-getting-stuck-to-my-lip-gloss' sort of way."

"Huh?"

"More in the 'Oh-my-God-he's-wonderful-and-attractive-and-smells-really-good,-but-he's-my- friend-way'."

"What?! Why didn't you ever say anything..."

"Shh, I've still got the confession to make."

"But..."

"Anyway," she interrupted. "I needed this fabric for the Crazy Quilt. And you had taken your shirt off and when you left you forgot it. And I was going to bring it back to you, I swear, but then it smelled so darn good, and I started looking at the color and the pattern and how soft it was..."

"You mean...?"

"Yes. I cut up your shirt and put it in my quilt," she admitted solemnly.

"You stole my shirt and _cut it up_?!" checked Luke, trying to grasp what he'd been told.

"Well, see, it was perfect for the quilt. Absolutely perfect. And you have so many flannel shirts. I didn't think... I mean, just one... And... well, in light of things, don't you think it's kind of... sweet?" she finished lamely.

"What did you call it again?" he sighed still trying to process.

"A Crazy Quilt," she grinned.

"Of course," he nodded.

"I need to go now," she told him regretfully as she stood up.

He got up as well.

"I don't suppose.." he began.

"What?" she smiled.

"Stay." he tried.

"Oh Luke, I can't," she told him sadly and set her mug down before wrapping her arms around his waist.

"Shoe shopping?" he teased, and slipped his fingers into her damp hair, "Or shirt-stealing capers in the works?"

"I wish," she said dolefully, "I have an important group coming in to my dear little country Inn today."

"Shriners?"

"Urban planners."

"Ah, the irony."

She laughed and looked up at him.

"Will you go with me to the town meeting tonight?" she fluttered her lashes.

"I hate those things."

"You usually go."

"But I hate them," he grumped.

"Do you want to see this shirt alive again?"

"I've got a million of them. Maisie buys me at least four every holiday, and did I say how much I hate Town Meetings?"

"We could go to a movie and dinner afterwards," she tried instead.

He sighed, "All right."

"You really know how to flatter a girl, Lucas," she said with a quick kiss before gathering up her jacket to go.

"Lorelai..." he stopped her before she could open the door.

She looked back at him, "I think the phrase you're looking for here is 'Wonderful Night'" she told him with a smile.

He nodded in agreement, "I'll see you tonight."

"Absolutely," she grinned.

"Lorelai!" he called again before she could leave.

"Hmm?"

"Keep the shirt. Looks good on you."

"Just like Ava Gardner," she smiled and was gone.


	4. Too

_5.04 Tippecanoe and Taylor Too_ episode addition. The morning after.

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He reached over and switched off the alarm, feeling a twinge in his shoulder with the reach. _Crap_.

It was early. Even for him. And he'd had a hard time getting back to sleep last night after she'd kissed him and left. Always did. Always had a hard time falling back asleep after he'd been awakened.

He sighed, ran a hand over his face, and groaned a little as he got up too. _Not_ _getting any younger there, Danes. _The damn celebration had gone on too long the night before and the band outside had been directly beneath his frickin' window and, without a doubt, there'd be a godawful mess to clean up down stairs.

In the shower, he mechanically went through the process of soaping up, of washing his hair, and thinking about Lorelai. About her at the door the night before, about how maybe he should have tried harder to get her to stay. He _had_ been asleep. Sure, he'd been asleep. They'd been up late together so many nights recently... He was tired. And it was good to be back where he had his own man-smelling soap and his own bathroom, but still... _Ah, hell_... He should have tried harder to get her to stay.

Fuck exhaustion. Fuck work. But no. It didn't work that way. They weren't a couple of kids. They had jobs and whole lives apart from one another (though he had the creeping sensation that this was slowly changing) and... They were fine, he told himself. He and Lorelai were fine. Right?

Right.

He groaned aloud then, and plunged his head back under the stream of hot water to wash the shampoo away.

Not many moments later, dry and dressed, he switched on the hall light at the landing outside the apartment door. It cast a sort of amber light. Lorelai had told him collectors would pay big money for an old fixture like this in those salvage places in New York. His Dad would have howled at that....

A million times maybe he'd gone down these stairs in his lifetime, he thought as he descended. Would he always?... Have to go down these stairs, that is. Would he always live above the diner?

Did he want too? Nicole had sure thought so...

He slid his hand on the bannister then, and fancied for a moment that he could feel his father somehow in the smoothness of the wood, in the way it shone from decades of palms smoothing down..

He liked living above the diner, he reflected. He really did. Even with Nicole, he'd stayed over more nights than not here....

And suddenly he had a vision of himself then, so clear that he paused on the step. Himself as an old man. Gray and stiff-jointed. Still climbing the stairs. Alone...

_Ah, Geez_... I _have_ had a bad night. _Get a grip, _he thought. And started again back downstairs. Trying to walk purposefully now.

He pushed aside the curtain and stepped into the diner and blinked a bit then. Lorelai must've left the lights on, he thought in irritation., and turned to go into the kitchen....

But, instead, saw her standing behind the counter—?!

A white gloppy mess and the blender, and still more white gloppy mess before her.

"Geez, Lorelai, you startled me. What are you doing here?"

"I had to come clean up the party stuff," she said and bent to peer in at the blender's contents.

He turned then to look back over the room. Nary a banner or button in sight. Not a single strip of crepe paper. He glanced upwards. Not even any little taped torn ends up high near the ceiling.

"Good thing I'm tall, hunh?" she grinned, as if reading his mind

He looked back at her, "What?"

"I could reach to get all the decorations down," she clarified and picking up the large can next to her, furrowed her brow to re-read the label.

"I don't know if I've done this right or not," she frowned.

"What are you trying to make? Other than the mess of course?" he crossed his arms over his chest.

She looked up at him and bit her lip, "A Mega-Man protein drink."

He blinked, "For me?"

"Did you think I got up with the roosters and came to the diner to make one of these disgustingly healthful things for myself?" She poured the gelatinous mixture into a glass then. It plopped in an odd way.

"I...---" he didn't know.

"Seriously?" she quizzed and looked up at him, "You think I would _drink_ this? Well then you can just open up the tiny little door in the clock and climb right back in, my friend."

"What?"

"Try it," she ordered and handed him the glass.

He eyed the lumpy contents, "I don't want to."

"Please!"

Hi sighed and took a tentative drink while she anxiously waited.

"Well?" she demanded, "Any good?"

"Delicious," he smiled bravely.

"Really?!"

"No," his shoulders slumped in defeat, "Please don't make me drink anymore."

"Okay," she said sadly

"It is by far the worst thing I've ever tasted."

"Right, I get the point," she reached for the glass and, after looking at it a moment, took a sip herself, "Oh my God!" she barked, "Horrible!"

He nodded in sympathy.

She set the glass down and stared at its revoltingness a moment, then sighed in resignation and turned to grab a cloth to start wiping down the counter.

"I just thought I'd try," she sighed.

"I appreciate it. I really do," he assured her, "And thanks for cleaning up the decorations."

She looked up at him and smiled, "You're welcome. Sorry about the drink. But, you're right. It should, in no way, be chewy.."

He nodded and walked around the counter then and reached over to touch her forearm, leaning in to her too. She lifted her chin to meet him, and kissed him softly.

When they pulled away, he smiled down at her.

"Good morning," he said.

"Good morning," she returned and wrapped her arms around him, "You look tired."

"I am," he snuggled into her hair.

"Couldn't get back to sleep?" she asked sympathetically.

"No."

"I'm sorry."

"'S'okay."

She breathed and squeezed his middle more tightly.

"Luke?"

"Hmmm..." he said drowsily, happily smelling her shampoo... he knew it well now, that smell...in her morning bathroom... her pillows... his shirts after he left her house... all smelled this way... It was nice..."

"How are we doing?"

"We're doing great," she felt his voice rumble against her head.

"I think so too," she said, "There's just so much we still don't know about each other..."

"I know."

"I mean we're both pretty set in our ways but we're figuring it out... right?"

"Absolutely."

"I mean... is this all too much for you?"

"Is what too much?" his eyes were closed now, his cheek against her silky hair.

"Us? Having different bedtimes. Eating breakfasts so opposite, you could be with penguins and me with polar bears. Yet, we're so in each other's lives now. Is it too..---.?"

"No, it isn't too..---."

"I mean, are you too tired of me and my Broadway Baby ways?"

"Of course not."

She bit her lip, pulled away to look at him, breaking into his cozy, Lorelai-smelling moment."

"So, you don't think 'All in' was too much too soon?"

"Lorelai," he looked down at her, "We've both got stuff to figure out, right? We aren't kids. We've known each other for years, but..."

"We're still learning?" she smiled.

"We'll do it," he assured her, "And, I'm happy. Very happy."

"Me too," she nodded, "In a completely different way, though."

"A good way?"

"Oh, yes," she said definitively.

"Then 'All in' wasn't too soon. Or too much."

"Okay, good," she said and kissed him gently before reluctantly adding, "I have to get home to change for work now."

"Who's going to finish cleaning up this mess?" he pointed to the counter and the protein drink spillage as she pulled away towards the door.

She smiled beatifically over her shoulder as she walked. He sighed in mock anger.

"Sleeping with you is getting me nothing," he groused and reached for a rag.

She paused at the door then and turned back to look at him.

"Luke," she said thoughtfully.

"Hmmm?" he looked up.

"I..." She looked him in the eye, "I think... I think I'm falling in love with you."

He met her gaze and swallowed, "Well... Me too. With you."

"We're going to have to talk about that sometime."

"Yep.."

"And about this little breakfast problem were having," she frowned.

"That too."

She nodded, her smile returning, his answering, and stepped out into the early morning to head home.


	5. Virgin

5.06_ We've got us a Pippi Virgin_ episode addition. A couple of days later.

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There are some things in life you can't get or take back.. Ever.

The lipstick you thought was the perfectly subtle and natural shade of necessary rose, but isn't really afer all. Certain irreversible sexual acts. The way things used to be. And brownies sent as a gift through the mail.

She sighed and re-read the letter that came with said brownies several times. It seemed unremarkable in and of itself, but was of course remarkable by the mere fact of its existence.

She perused it again and smiled briefly as a childhood memory flashed to her: The Stars' Hollow Public Library, being eight and checking out, yet again, one of the old blue-cloth covered Nancy Drew mysteries. The musty smell of the old paper. The adventurous girl detective who was not side-tracked by silly romantic notions. The way she always found a clue in the letter with a magnifying glass. She'd asked her mother for a magnifying glass that Christmas. And penny loafers too. Just like Nancy had. Lorelai'd shaken her head in wonder, but Santa had come through.

Naturally, when she'd picked the package up at the campus post office earlier that afternoon, she'd been excited by the hometown postmark, but puzzled by the handwriting. The same handwriting in the letter before her now. Almost illegible (meant it was quickly written, Rory Drew deduced) though concise (not an extra dot, flourish, or dangling tail any where about it.) She knew who'd sent the letter. That was no mystery. He'd signed his name.

There was just the question (as in all good mysteries) of motive.

And, how to tease it out? And, why was it exactly that she wanted to bother?

And a day or so later, after she'd doled out the brownies to Paris ('Are these carob? Chocolate gives me hives'); Doyle (after taking three, 'This in no way will affect article assignments'); Marty (with a big grin, 'I didn't even know people made brownies in their own homes!') And, after several phone conversations with her near and dear, she still wasn't really sure she understood it at all.

But, of course, she'd thank him for the trouble when she saw him again, and not just for her mother's sake, and let those bygones be gone (something else you can't get back, she noted) and talk to Dean about it too.

So, as she usually did (though perhaps not as much lately), she broke it down and thought about it. In light of her phone conversations. In light of literature and history. In light of everything she missed so much at home, and how being in the world was not turning out the way she'd always so carefully planned.

_Dear Rory, _(it read)

_Please find enclosed two dozen brownies. I remember that they are your favorite and thought I'd send them to you. The diner business, I guess, makes you remember things like that. Which is fine with me. Being good at remembering is what I do. Not much to remember in Stars' Hollow anyway. Not like Yale, I imagine. Probably a lot to remember there. Historic dates and things. Didn't go away to college myself. Commuted for awhile, but never really wanted to leave this stupid town. Don't ask me why._

_So, about the other night: I owe you an apology. Whatever I think or feel, I shouldn't have been the way I was with Dean. So sorry again. Please tell him too._

_It's just that... and I know I should have stopped writing now, but I can't help thinking that there is so much more for you in the world that isn't Stars' Hollow or Dean. And you can tell me to go to hell, or that it's none of my business, or both, but when I think back to that speech you gave at your graduation... Well, I don't know how anyone could be prouder of a kid that they weren't related to than I was of you. Still am._

_Your mom would tell me to keep my Nosey McNose (or something equally stupid) out of it about now, and tell me again how much she needs to have peace between the two of you. Her ability to forgive people has always floored me, so I'd like to think that after a good yell, she'd forgive me for writing this (maybe if I make her some brownies too.) I really hope you'll forgive me as well because that's important to me. _

_Your mom forgives because she's screwed up so much herself (how she explained it to me) though I can't really wrap my mind around that, or see what she's ever done so wrong to feel this way. But she'd do anything rather than lose you. Her mother lost her, she says, and that is enough of that. Yeah, we talked after you left the other night._

_I don't know. It's none of my business, I do know that. But I don't want you hurt. Not while you're young and have so much ahead of you. Or ever really. Challenged, yes. Hurt, no way. So, truth is if it were some other guy than Dean that you were with, I'd still probably be a jerk with the situation (Your mom's idea again, and probably not far off the mark, but I'm not telling her that.) So sorry about that too. _

_And, for the record, she has revealed no details she shouldn't (you know she'd stop drinking coffee before she said a word against you) and nobody gossips to me. I'm just going with my gut here. _

_You're a good kid, Rory. A great kid. And, wherever you go in life, Stars' Hollow will be here for you. Waiting. It won't change. Damn town never does (though you will and should.) That's the way it works and why I didn't leave. Didn't want to change. Didn't see the point. For you though, there is. There's a big point. It's all forward for you, and gold coins, and lifting horses, and all that other stupid Pippi stuff too._

_Okay, that's enough from me. My written word quota for the decade has been reached. Gotta make sure your mom knows that. Because now she'll want some crazy romantic letter and I'm not writing her one, however much she pouts. You can tell her that from me._

_Ah hell, forget all the crap I just wrote and eat your brownies, because I remember the day you and Lane decided they were your favorites and made me promise to always serve them. Valentine's Day weekend, right after your mom broke her leg. She sent you two into the diner by yourselves for the first time. You were very grown up about it and ordered brownies to celebrate._

_The things we remember._

_Okay, gotta go start a fresh pot of coffee (you can guess why.) Come see me when you're in town again. Dean too, if that's what you want. I promise not to headlock him. And, drive carefully._

_Sincerely,_

_Luke Danes_

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"Mom?"

"Hey kid, you okay?"

"Fine. Why?"

"You sound different."

"Well, I'm not."

"Okay."

"Luke sent me some brownies."

"He did?"

"Yeah."

"THE brownies?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

"Two dozen."

"Wow! He's been holding out on me."

"And a letter."

"A letter? Like 'Q'? Like a Sesame Street thing?"

"No, like a 'Dear Rory,' kind of thing."

"Flannel-wearing, cute but scruffy, _my boyfriend Luke _sent you this?!"

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

"He said he was sorry about the other night."

"He was honey. He _is_."

"I know... but, I still don't understand why he acted that way."

"Yes you do, Rory."

"Well, it's none of his business."

"No, I guess it isn't."

"Then why do I care about his letter?"

"Because you care about him and he's always been there for us. He _matters_. Now more than ever."

"He said you were trying to keep the peace between us."

"I don't know if I'd put it like that, Rory."

"How would you put it then?"

"I don't know. It's not something I really understood was necessary until suddenly my daughter was standing before me all grown up."

"Wearing a scarlet A on her chest?'

"Only makes me prouder."

"Right."

"Okay, got me there. But your happiness matters to me. Matters more than anything. I want you moving forward in your life. Moving toward happiness."

"Mom, it's not like I'm trying to go back or hold on to the past or something. With Dean I mean."

"I never said you were."

"It's not like that between us."

"I'm sure it's not."

"I'm not afraid of..."

"Of what, Rory?"

"Gah! This is a stupid conversation!"

"Well, you chose the topic."

"Luke said that Stars' Hollow will always be there, that I'm the one who will change. _Should_ change."

"Well, hunky Burger-man speaks truth."

"Wow... you've never..."

"I've never what?"

"...Never let anyone else have an opinion about us or me or our lives before."

"Rory, you have to believe that I didn't know he was going to write you a letter, or send THE brownies for that matter."

"I know."

"And I didn't tell him anything about your private business either."

"He said that too."

"Okay. Then what is bothering you?"

"I don't know!"

"Can I help you figure it out?"

"I don't think so."

"Okay... but I want to."

"Well, sorry about that."

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"Dean, hey!"

"Rory! I'm glad you called."

"I'm sorry it's late."

"That's okay. Kyle had a party. I was up anyway."

"So I got this package and a letter... from Luke."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. He said he was sorry... about the other night."

"Well, he was an asshole."

"He just..."

"What?"

"He's got this protective thing with me... I guess."

"He's not your father."

"No, he isn't."

"Does he think I'm going to hurt you or something?"

"No. I don't know. He's just sorry."

"Well, that's great."

"Dean, I don't think he knows or anything...."

"Knows? Knows what?"

"About us and..."

"Oh."

"Should we talk about that or something?"

"Rory, it's done."

"Yes it is."

"And we're togther now."

"Yes..."

"So I don't really see the point in..."

"I see."

"Rory..."

"You know, we've known each other for awhile now, Dean. Even though we weren't always together. But we've known each other."

"Rory..."

"For awhile..."

"Rory, what...–?"

"And I screwed it up the first time."

"I broke up with you."

"I didn't know..."

"What?"

"What I wanted. I don't know what I want."

"Excuse me? What tense are we talking in right now?"

"I mean I want you, of course. But I keep thinking of how it was then."

"But this is now, Rory."

"Wow. It 's totally _The Way We Were_."

"What?"

"The movie: _The Way We Were_. Redford and Streisand."

"Haven't seen it. Does it have a happy ending?"

"No. It's beautiful though. Lorelai says Barbra Streisand has the best manicure she ever saw."

"Okay. But it ends sadly?"

"Yes."

"That doesn't have to be us, Rory."

"No, I guess it doesn't."

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"...So Zach, although bright and talented, is a Slow Processor."

"A Slow Processor?"

"Yes."

"Is that like being a Close Talker?"

"No."

"So, he processes slowly?"

"Yes."

"But what does that mean?"

"That you and he can start a club?"

"Sorry, it's been a weird week."

"Rory, what's going on with you?"

"Well, you know how the double date got all weird?"

"Yeah, I've been meaning to suggest that your family just give those up entirely."

"Hindsight is 20/20."

"So, did something _else _happen? Some sort of unexpected gift arrive, or something?"

"You know!"

"Know what?"

"I can hear the knowing smile in your voice."

"Okay, okay. I know Luke baked you The brownies. He didn't tell me why, but I'd talked to you and kinda figured... And anyway, he asked for your address. Said he didn't want to put your mom in the middle, in case you were still angry with him. Or got more angry or something. He made me a box too, since The brownies are really Our brownies. Sweet, hunh? That Luke. One minute he's ripping the bread guy a new one, and the next he's baking The brownies or making your mom dinner or... well, you know how he is."

"Yes, I do. Lane, he sent me a letter with the brownies too."

"Luke wrote a letter?"

"Yeah."

"Never really thought of him doing something like that before. A whole letter. Wow. And his writing can be really hard to read."

"He apologized for the Bop-it Gone-Postal scene."

"Ah, sweet."

"Yeah..."

"Rory? Are you still there?"

"Yeah, just... processing stuff."

"Well, take your time."

"Lane, do you remember the day The brownies became Our brownies?"

"Yeah, I do. That was a great day. It was right around Valentine's Day and..."

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"Rory, hello!"

"Oh hello, Grandma."

"How are things going at school?"

"Oh, you know... work."

"Listen, I was calling to double check on about Friday dinner. I couldn't remember if you had a school event this week or not."

"Nope. Not a thing. I'll be there with bells on."

"That won't be necessary."

"So, Grandma..."

"Yes?"

"How are you doing?"

"I'm doing fine, Rory."

"Mom said Grandpa joined a barbershop choir."

"Yes, and it's not that strange all-female one. I checked."

"Oh."

"He used to sing when he was young. At Yale."

"Grandma, may I ask you a question?"

"Of course, dear."

"When you and Grandpa first went out..."

"I don't really want to talk about the past, Rory. It was a long time ago. And is over now. I've learned the hard way in life not to cry over spilled milk. Raising your mother, as much as I did, taught me..."

"But, I want to know..."

"Rory, bringing up past romantic memories is not a terribly unique ploy to get me to reconcile with your Grandfather. And it won't work. We are different people now."

"Im not trying to do that... This is for me, Grandma. I'm asking because I want to know."

"I see. Well, what is it you want to know?"

"How did you know...? I mean how did you know that he was the one for you? I mean back then?"

"Are you having boy troubles, Rory?"

"No, that's not it. I'm just thinking..."

"About how you'll know Mr. Right?"

"I guess."

"Well, I believe that it takes getting out there and meeting a lot of fellows. And making friends. And when you meet the one, it just sort of 'clicks' inside you."

"Clicks?"

"Yes, 'clicks'."

"But how did Grandpa make you feel that was so different from anyone else?"

"Back then, you mean?"

"Yes, back then."

"Well, I suppose one of the things he did that made me feel different was the way he sort of... Well, challenged me for lack of a better phrase."

"Challenged you?"

"Yes. I thought he was insufferable at first."

"You did? But what about the 'click'?"

"That came later."

"After the challenge?"

"After the challenge. He was so bright and cocky and witty. His education meant a lot to him. I could tell that right away, despite how insufferable he could be. But soon we found that we could talk and talk and talk about everything. Always could. Until recently, that is."

"So, you had things in common?"

"Not at first. He was Connecticut and I was Main Line, there's quite a difference there, after all. I mean if one is part of The Four Hundred, that's another story. But we had a lot to show each other about our vastly different worlds."

"Your vastly different _High Society_ worlds?"

"Of course."

"Okay. So, a 'click', challenging one another, different worlds, talking..."

"Yes, that was mostly it. It didn't hurt that he could dance like Astaire either."

"I see..."

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"Stars' Hollow Books. May I help you?"

"Hi, Andrew. It's Rory."

"Rory, how are you?!"

"Glad to hear your grammatically correct greeting. It's always comforting, and it restores my faith."

"Well, I am the foremost purveyor of literature in Stars' Hollow. Whatever that other Come-Lately-Movie-Theater-Book-Seller may say..."

"Yes, you are. And the only one with the courage to point out to Taylor that his produce is 'healthful' and not 'healthy', I might add. You even finally got him to change his sign."

"You were the only one who appreciated that campaign. Right I'm working on 'Twelve items or _Fewer' _"

"Because what idiot puts 'or less'?"

"Exactly!"

"It's the right thing to do, my friend."

"Hard to tilt at those windmills all alone, though."

"You are a literary martyr indeed. Next week you should jump all over everyone for saying 'I'm done' when they really mean 'finished'."

"I miss you, kid."

"Back atcha'. So, I have a little assignment for you."

"Don't tell me Yale is missing a copy of the third folio, because I may have to write my congressman..."

"Nope, I'm looking for a nice clean copy of **Pippi Longstocking**."

"Ah, the classics are always the way to go."

"Yes, they are."

"So, the first book I assume. Not any of the sequels."

"Well, Mr. Nielsen just gets weird in the later stories."

"Damn monkey."

"Yep."

"So, which edition are we talking here, Rory...–?"

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_Dear Luke,_

_Thank you for sending The brownies. It was so nice to taste something of home. I miss it more than I like to admit. _

_Please find enclosed an edition of **Pippi Longstocking**. There will be no test, but I expect you to read it. I also expect you to be nice to Dean, or civil anyway, when you see him again. I expect you to do this for me. And my mom as well._

_Because it was perfectly clear in your letter that we all mean something to one another. I guess we always have; Mom, you, and me too. But now we know that for sure, and so I know I can ask this of you._

_Pippi is great. The book is great, but she herself is great too. Yes, she is waiting at home for her father the Cannibal King to return (a little Oedipal perhaps, but feminist too because of what she does with and for herself while she waits.) Her happiness is not impeded, her adventures undiminished, her friendships flourish. She has joy in her home and her horse too._

_And, she has learned to take care of herself._

_So, perhaps washing the floor by skating on scrubbing brushes is not the best way to accomplish this task, but she'll figure it out. She's far from perfect. She doesn't always think about consequences. She has some pretty terrible bad hair days, and clearly has not worn her retainer with any regularity._

_But, she'll figure it all out, Luke, she will. I promise. See, she's got this great support system._

_So, when you are reading this book, enjoy it. Know that everything will turn out all right, and don't worry. _

_See you at the diner soon. Take care of my mom. She's so.. well, happy now, I guess. And that means everything to me._

_Take care,_

_Rory Gilmore _

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"Rory!"

"Hi mom."

"We still on for Friday?"

"Absolutely."

"Well, good. Guess what?"

"What?"

"Luke wrote me the sweetest letter!"

"He did?"

"Oh, yeah... you should see it...."


	6. Pregnant

5.06 (sorry, I mis-numbered the last ep.) _Norman Mailer, I'm Pregnant! _episode addition.

Takes up where we left L&L.

(I know, I know. Wouldn't happen, but if it did it might like this.... So, indulge me.

And, Happy Halloween.)

Dark reality comes to Stars' Hollow

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Lorelai watched Luke work for a while and sipped at the heavenly coffee, stealing a glance over her shoulder at Norman Mailer now and then too as she sat.

"Artists like to think they are only unto themselves, but that isn't true," she heard the elderly bard drone. "We all want and need an audience. Whether we admit it or not. Sure we write for ourselves, and can do it in a vacuum too for all we care, but when it comes right down to it at the end of the day, we need someone to read it."

"So, symbiosis?" queried the journalist.

_No, Sycophant,_ thought Lorelai and sipped again.

She tuned out the Luke Salon then and returned to watching the man himself putter around the diner. Things were good, she thought contentedly, and the coffee was good. And Luke was... she glanced over at him as he returned with the ice tea pitcher in hand, with yet another roll of his eyes... Well, Luke was Luke, and just what he ought to be, which was great by her. She smiled warmly at him then causing him to look at her a moment before setting the pitcher down.

"What's with you?" he asked with typical tact.

"Nothing," she smiled into another sip.

"Uh hunh," he eyed her doubtfully.

"Really, Inspector: Nothing!" she insisted with a laugh. "You are entirely too suspicious."

"And you are entirely too happy," he returned and reached for the coffee pot to top her off. It was his well-tried ploy for lengthening her stay. Hadn't failed him yet.

"That's just it!"

"What's it?"

"I'm happy," she told him, and then lowered her voice and leaned in a bit, "And you're a big part of that, buddy. You are just my Little Mary Sunshine."

"I am not your Little Mary Sunshine," he frowned.

"All right," she conceded, "But you do make me happy."

Instantly Luke's face transformed from suspicious grump to pleased as punch. (Lorelai loved it when that happened.)

"Really?" he checked.

"Absolutely. You could not make me any happier if you told me you were installing that pizza oven tomorrow."

"Lorelai, I told you I am _not _going to install a pizza oven."

"I know! And yet, I still want to sleep with you. And look at you. And drink your coffee too. I should say, 'No pizza oven?! Well, kiss my ass, Burger-man!... but I don't. I just...."

But Luke was grinning now. Widely. A pretty rare sight, but not what she was thinking about right now.

"Oh, no you don't! Don't go there!" she warned him knowingly.

"You just told me to kiss your ass," he reminded her.

"Well, I meant it in the _insult_ kind of way." She looked both ways before lowering her voice again, "And the other night doesn't count."

"If you say so," he shrugged and reached for a bussing tray.

"I do," she insisted.

Luke crossed around behind the counter to clear some tables then, but leaned over her shoulder first to whisper in her ear, "It totally counts."

Lorelai felt the warmth rise to her cheeks but was saved from making her sure-to-be-brilliant retort by the ringing of her cell phone. Without looking back at Luke, she snapped open her phone and slipped out past Norman Mailer and to the sidewalk to talk.

Luke eyed her through the window as he picked up the remaining detritus of the lunch rush (they were just down to the codger and that kid with the tape recorder drinking ice tea now.) She was excited, that was an easy tell, he observed as he watched her. Whomever she was speaking to, was telling her good news. He took a quick appraising glance at the salts and peppers then (good to go for dinner) before lifting his eyes to her again: Yep, definitely good news. She was even bouncing a little. Of course with Lorelai that could mean that the new anvil stamps were in at the post office. Only she would get excited about the 'Blacksmiths of the West' series. But no, then again, he mused as he watched her twirl a little (he had to smile at that), this looked bigger than stamps.

"Hey, Luke!" she burst back into the diner, her eyes aglow, "We're having a party tonight!"

"Who's _we_?" he asked, back in grumpy mode now (he had a rep after all.)

"Babette, Patty, Andrew, Gypsy, Mrs. Cassinni... Oh, everyone!... It's for Sookie!" she grinned and sat back down at the counter.

"Is it her birthday?"

"No, she just found out that she's pregnant again!"

"Oh."

"I can see that you are thrilled by the news," she laughed.

"No, it's..." he began uncomfortably.

She ignored his standard baby revulsion.

"So, we're having a little impromptu party tonight at her house after dinner. Everyone's invited. It's so exciting! I'm going to stop and get some flowers before I hit the post office to check on the anvils. Hey, can you come by after the dinner rush?"

"Well, I..."

"Oh," her face fell (he hated that).

"I'd like to. Nothing better than a baby celebration in my book," he began ('Uh hunh' she nodded, clearly convinced), "It's just that I've got that bank meeting tomorrow morning."

"Oh right," she nodded, remembering.

"And, I've got to finish getting the frickin' paperwork together," his tone was apologetic now.

She smiled at him and covered his hand with hers, "And you spent Sunday morning fixing my oven..."

"Well, you need dry socks."

"And Monday night we went to Sniffy's..."

"Maisie makes the really big brownies, which you needed..."

"And tomorrow you're coming to fix my backdoor lock."

"Well, that definitely needs to be done."

"You've been neglecting your work for me, Luke," she reprimanded him gently.

"It hasn't exactly been a sacrifice," he looked her in the eye on this.

"You do your paperwork tonight," she smiled, "You can congratulate Sookie and Jackson later. It's so exciting, though. They've been trying for this for awhile now. She told me that they just _need_ someone else in their family. I thought that was such a great way of thinking about it... just needing 'someone else'. Just like that."

Luke took in the way she radiated happiness. Like a lamp or a campfire, or... something anyway. Something that you wanted to be near. Something that warmed you up.

"Maybe I could come by later," he thought aloud, "If I get finished."

"Maybe," she lit up further, "but do what you need to do first. Can't have this place going under."

"Yeah, I'm making my fortune on ice tea as we speak," he grumped with a dark look at the men by the window."

Lorelai grinned and began gathering her purse and phone to head back to the Inn.

"Hey, stop by here on your way to the party," he said impulsively.

"And why should I do that?" she flirted.

"I like lookin' at ya. And I want to send over a pie."

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It can't good for you, can it? Laughing so hard? Laughing so hard it takes the wind out of you? You need to keep the oxygen flowing in a pretty constant supply to your brain, right? But what the hell! You have to laugh. You just have to...

There was Patty and Babbette, and Morrie too, playing the tuneless upright in the corner. They'd go on long into the night, these party veterans, thought Lorelai. And there were Sookie and Jackson too, so clearly thrilled. Allowing themselves to really feel the happiness this time around, without all the baggage and fear that comes with the first pregnancy.

And everyone had funny stories to tell tonight. Lorelai's was about Bruce The Midwife wanting Jackson to tie off the cord with freshly boiled shoelaces. And then they were all howling again...

And how could it get any better than this? she wondered. But she knew how, of course. Just the addition of two more would complete this evening. Make it perfectly perfect. Just the mixing in of her family too. Those she needed most. But work was work and Rory and Luke needed to be where they were. She didn't really need to be anywhere herself, right now. No one was needing her. But that was a different house of cards she didn't want to dwell in at the moment—not during this nearly-perfect evening.

But she _was _tired now and at the point in her life where, fun or no, that just can't be ignored. And though it wasn't late, she wanted to be in early tomorrow. So, she said goodnight then and walked out into the fall evening listening to the closing strains of Morrie's _Mac the Knife_ as she slipped away. Bittersweet, she thought with a sigh... which naturally made her think of chocolate...

Chocolate? Chocolate!

Hmmm... the market?

She badly wanted to stop at the diner as she strolled into the town square. Tap on it's darkened door until he padded down to let her in so she could slip into the flannel coziness of his bed and just be held. She sighed at that delicious thought and looked up: His light was on upstairs. But she knew he was working and she'd only be a distraction now. So she dutifully walked over to Doose's, focusing in again on the chocolate, but having an epiphany en route instead: What this evening really needed to seal its perfection was not chocolate but a Slushee nightcap!

"Hey Dean," she waved as she passed the register and made a direct line for the beautiful glowing red Slushee light. Like Manna drawing her in.

She wondered briefly how she could obtain such a Slushee light of her own. Was there a catalogue or a website somewhere? Because that would be so cool to put up in her kitchen. Her very own giant red Slushee drink in lamp form burning cheerily every time she came into the kitchen. Luke would blow a gasket, she thought and laughed a little out loud at that.

"Something funny?" she heard.

She turned to the speaker as she capped off her perfectly peaked Slushee with its domed cap.

"Just amusing myself," she replied as she looked up at a virtual mountain of a man. He was bearded (a little salt a pepper) and wearing a western style hat.

"Lonely?" the man asked, his eyes crinkling a bit.

"Uh, no. Just crazy," she told him with a smile.

He shifted the six pack of beer he was holding up under his arm, and picked up the nacho plate he'd just filled from the service counter before him.

"Most women are," he stated before turning to go to the check out counter.

_Very nice_, thought Lorelai with an eye roll, and turned away to search for a straw. Alas, to no avail: Dispenser sadly empty.

"Dean!" she called over as he was ringing up Mountain Man, "Where're the straws?"

"Oh sorry, Lorelai! I'll be over in just a minute!"

"That's okay, just tell me where they are," she returned.

"Cupboard, lower right!"

She found the straws and filled the dispenser too, before popping one into her Slushee and walking over to stand behind Mountain Man to pay.

"Sorry sir," she heard Dean say. And was he actually having to look _up_ at this guy?

"But I'm only short thirty-three cents," groused Mountain Man.

Lorelai looked down and noticed for the first time that Mountain Man was leaning on a cane. It had a particularly intricate carved silver dog head for a handle. All fangs and drool. Lorelai shuddered a little.

"The owner is pretty picky about people paying what they owe," Dean returned a little testily.

"But it's _thirty-three cents_!"

"I'm sorry."

"Don't you have a penny jar or something?"

Lorelai almost snorted Slushee out her nose at the thought of Taylor leaving pennies out and unguarded.

"No," Dean told him.

"Is there an ATM somewhere in this place?"

"One. Up the street. But I can tell you right now that it's out of order," Dean told him.

"Shit-hole town," growled Mountain Man.

"Hey!" Dean protested with an apologetic look at Lorelai.

"It's all right, Dean," she soothed and opened up her purse. "Look, here's two-dollars. That should cover my Slushee and big guy's national debt here."

"Lorelai..." Dean looked doubtful.

"Dean, it's fine," she assured him.

Mountain Man shifted and looked over at Lorelai a moment, "Thanks," he said gruffly.

"Well, we crazy shit-hole-living women are just Crazy! like that," she said and walked out into the night, "bye Dean!" she called over her shoulder as she went.

Once outside her cell phone rang, and glancing at the number before she answered made her smile.

"Hey there, Burger-man!"

"Hey," was the doleful response.

"Uh oh. You do not sound happy."

"I'm not."

"Hmmm... novel!"

"Lorelai, I can't come to the party."

"Oh honey, don't worry about it. I'm on my way home now."

"Oh."

"You sound disappointed."

"No... Well, the part about missing you, yes I am."

"Luke, it's okay. Really. I'll see you tomorrow. I'd like to say that it'll be all the better for having waited, but I've just never seen the point in all that delayed gratification crap..."

"No, you never have," he agreed. She could hear the smile in his voice. Her smile. The one he wore when he was thinking about her. When she wasn't annoying him, that is.

"Ah now, that's better," she cooed.

"Wish it were."

"Work not going well?"

"I just like to have a head start for tax season."

"No fun," she told him sympathetically, "Do you need any help?"

"Yes, but not with the paperwork. Where are you now?" he asked.

"Walking past the book store."

"So, closer to home than the diner?"

"'Fraid so," she verified.

"Well," he sighed, "I'll come by tomorrow to work on the backdoor lock, after the bank. Can you meet me at your house at lunch time?"

"You bet! My house tomorrow. Lunch time. A backdoor lock fixing date, " she smiled, "And maybe we can find time to squeeze in some more traditional dating _activities_ too."

"I'm liking the sound of that."

"Well, good."

"Good."

"'Night, Luke."

"'Night, Lorelai."

She snap-closed her phone then, dropped it in her purse, then sighed and smiled, and slurped her Slushee too. Still an almost-perfect night. She was happy. Rory was right about that, she thought as she clicked along home. She felt full of possibilities. Even being tired didn't matter so much in this mood.

Once home, she went around to the backdoor (keys still stuck in the lock) and noted Morrie and Babette's darkened house. Must still be at the party, she shook her head and smiled as she reset the dishtowel over the key-in-the-doorknob and went in. She dropped her purse on a nearby chair then and walked over to flip on the light and check her answering machine.

'_Hello! This is Lorelai and I've met Norman Mailer personally: He's got a bladder made of titanium! Leave a message at the beep, please.'_

"Lorelai, this is your mother. I'm not even going to pretend to understand that message. I simply wanted to make it clear that we are on for dinner Friday night. After your schedule mix-up last week, I wanted to clarify. I also know that you walked barefoot on my Persian, young lady. Don't deny it! And the maid found olives in the Baccarat flower bowl. You are a barbarian, Lorelai Gilmore! An absolute barbarian. I don't know how Rory survived, I honestly don't. I also want to make it clear that.....---"

Thankfully Emily was beeped off at this point.

Lorelai sighed and slipped out of her shoes. Well, she wouldn't do that again. Hartford pizza sucked anyway, she reflected and turned to head back into the kitchen to toss out the now-empty Slushee cup.

"Ahh!" she shouted instead at what she saw, "Wh-What are you doing here?"

"I overheard you on the phone before and thought 'Poor Lorelai, all alone tonight. That's too bad.' Thought you might like some company. So here I am."

"You scared the crap out of me! And, d-did you follow me here?" she asked in alarm.

"Street-smart, that's you!" laughed the Mountain Man as he leaned on his cane and took another step into her kitchen, "You really should get that lock fixed."

She looked up into his reddened eyes.

"It's been a long day... And I'm not looking for company," she told him firmly.

"Now, where's that small-town hospitality you always hear tell of?" he asked and meandered further into the room.

"It ended at thirty three cents!" she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. _Why had she taken_ _her shoes off?_ She wondered irrationally.

"Well, I owe you," he said setting a bottle down on the table. "Beer?"

"No. I'd really like you to leave now," she insisted.

"Don't want to," he told her and withdrew a different smaller, though clearly stronger, bottle from his coat pocket and took a big drink. His eyes never leaving her.

"_Don't want to?_ Look, this is my house and I don't know you and it's late... so, if you don't mind..." she gestured angrily to the door.

"But I do mind. Come on, Lorelai. Relax. You're alone tonight. I'm alone. Let's just... talk or something.."

_Alone._

"Talk? I don't think so. I don't really want to have to call the police to get you to leave. But if you can't comprehend that I _do_ want you to leave, and are unable or unwilling to take that action, I will," she put her hands on her hips.

"Just wanted to talk," he said sadly. "Look, I know this wasn't the smartest thing to do... but... I'm alone, see? And you're the first person in... Well, in a long time, that treated me at all like a human being. That did something nice, just because they could. So I... I don't know. I'm crazy. You're right. You don't know me. If my daughter'd had a guy come in like this, I would have killed him on sight. So I understand. But, you just seemed... well, nice."

"Not this nice! Really. So bearing that in mind, I'm sorry you're lonely, but please...Go. Now." She pointed to the door.

He regarded at her a moment then nodded and turned away to leave. She took a breath in relief, but caught it again when he stumbled a little and reached a hand over to steady himself on the table.

"Oh man!" she hurried over and managed to scoop a kitchen chair under him before he fell over.

"How much have you had to drink there, Mountain Man?" she asked.

He only grunted in reply.

"Where's your car?" she asked in frustration.

He shrugged, "Moline."

"Moline?" she repeated in confusion, _Moline Mountain Man?_ "How did you get here then?"

"My truck," he told her and rubbed his hand over his eyes.

"But you said it was in Moline."

"My car is. You asked about _my car_. Japanese piece of crap, " he explained with a slur (his breath burned at her eyes as she leaned over him,) "My ex-wife got it."

"Then, where's your truck?" she asked and turned around to switch on the coffee pot.

"Truck stop on the 84. I walked in. Stupid laws against big rigs in the town square."

"Is there someone nearby I can call for you? Someone to come get you?" she offered.

"No."

Lorelai sighed, "I am going to make you some coffee now, which you are going to drink. And then I'm going to take you back to your truck where you will sleep this off."

He looked up at her, "You're being nice to me again," he observed quietly.

"Go figure. As a rule, I'm pretty self-centered. Just ask my fan base," said Lorelai in irritation, sticking a mug directly under the spout of streaming coffee to save time.

"What?"

"Nevermind. Here, drink this," she handed the mug over.

"Don't make me drink alone," he smiled weakly.

Lorelai rolled her eyes, and stuck another mug into the maker to fill it up as well.

"What were you thinking?" she finally asked, after they'd each taken a sip. "I mean coming in here like this? What could you have possibly been thinking? That I? That we?..."

He shrugged pathetically.

"I was thinking you were pretty. And nice," he looked up at her, "Come on. Sit down here by me," he coaxed.

"Man, you do not give up!" she said in exasperation.

"Not when I see what I like," he said, and tapped the chair next to him with his cane, "Come on, Lorelai, I don't bite..." he smiled...

And it was then that she saw something, something in that smile...

She couldn't really put her finger on it...

She regarded him a moment. What was it... ?

And then swallowed down a sudden bilious realization...

(a little cold clench snaking its way into the pit of her stomach...)

And the penny dropped...

_Oh! _

_Oh, no! _

_Oh, no, no, no, no..._

She managed to remain stock still but flicked her eyes ever so subtly over to the chair by the now-closed backdoor where she'd dropped her purse and phone when she'd come home.

_It wasn't there. _

Crap.

Her heart rate accelerated palpably.

She swallowed again and flicked her eyes back over to Mountain Man still sitting at her kitchen table. He was watching her. Still smiling that smile.

That's the mug I used for breakfast this morning, she thought apropos of nothing, as she took a deliberately casual sip from her own.

And then the babble began (damn it!) like it had a frickin' life of its own.

"Um... Okay, don't really have time to sit down right now, Mountain M--.... er, Big Guy!.. Sorry! Don't know your name! But, it's late, and I have to be at work early and my b-boyfriend's coming over soon anyway," she tried with a smile. "And you should get going. Really. You should. Let me... Uh... just let me get my shoes in the other room, and then I'll take you back to your truck. Just be a minute..."

She turned to walk away then. _Very nonchalant there, Lorelai_.

And then... _Please, please, please... I'll never drink coffee again.... Anything... _

She could see her shoes plainly there, just under the phone table. Pink Choo pumps. Adorable. Had been on sale. Just a few steps away. A very few steps now. She focused in then on the phone table. On the phone itself.... slowly she reached for it...

And yelped in fear as the silver headed dog came crashing out of no where, smashing the phone before her to smithereens.

She looked at it in dumb shock a moment, her hand frozen just inches away still in mid-reach.

She turned to look at him then. He was closer to her than she'd realized.

"W-would you like an Altoid?" she asked, shaken to her core.

"What?!"

Lorelai backed up a little, "You should consider accepting it," she informed him. And then another wee little step backwards towards the living room then too. "When someone offers you an Altoid, it's usually a polite hint about the condition of your breath. So, it's a good idea to take said hint because bad breath can really..."

She was scared now. Definitely scared. Knees weak, adrenalin-surging-scared.

"You're crazy," he said and stepped in to her, smiling again.

Lorelai moved awkwardly behind the couch then, trying to gauge how far it was to the front door at the same time.

She nodded, "I am. I am crazy. Ask anyone. But I told you that already. And you should get the hell out of here. That would really be the best thing right now. And, if you think I'm going to run up the stairs where there is a working phone but yet another really crappy doorlock attached to a door that may look real enough but is actually made out of paper, then you are crazy too. I've seen the movies, my friend, and running upstairs is the biggest mistake you can make..."

"Seems to me that running anywhere would be a big mistake for you right now. And it would disappoint me terribly," he told her.

"Look, Mountain Man, (his eyes widened at that)" she tried a different tack, forcing a smile of her own, "My boyfriend's going to be here any time, really. And we don't have to say a word about this... "

"No, he's not."

"Wh-what? Of course he is."

"He's not coming until tomorrow. Going to fix the lock then. Dumbass should've fixed it before now, dontcha' think? You're awfully pretty to be here alone with no backdoor lock."

"It's a small town. People hear everything. They're nosey."

"Good thing no one on the block is at home then," he replied. "I checked," he added, his smile widening by the minute. He reached into his pocket, withdrew his bottle and took another swig before replacing it again.

"What's your name?" she asked then.

"Mountain Man's works for me."

"Come on," she wheedled, "you must have a name."

"You talk to much," he told her as he moved into that space perfectly equi-distant from both exits.

He tapped his cane menacingly on the floor. She noticed.

"So," she began from behind the couch, "Why the dog?"

"I like dogs," he shrugged, "And you're wasting time. This doesn't have to be difficult, Lorlelai. Why make it that way? We could just go upstairs for awhile and then I'll leave."

"A real cuddler, hunh?" she laughed inappropriately, but sobered immediately with the realization that he was still dead serious, "Look... M-Mountain Man, I have a daughter," she said a little desperately now. "I have a life. A boyfriend. You said that I was nice. Why would you want to do this...to me?"

"Sounds like a lovely little life you got there, Lorelai. Must be nice," he said caustically, "But I'm here tonight to tell you that sometimes things happen. Not nice things. Even in this shit-hole town. Sometimes fucking not nice things happen!" he was shouting now. "Like your wife gets knocked up by someone else and leaves... Or your little girl gets sent to Iraq by a man no smarter than a bag of hair! Or your job gets outsourced to India! Or you get hurt trying to do a job you're too old and fat to do... These things happen, Lorelai. Fucking _Not Nice_ things! And if they haven't happened to you yet, then maybe it's goddam time they did!"

He took another step toward her. His intent plain.

And Lorelai felt a cold quivering begin within her. She could taste the metallic bitter of adrenalin in her mouth.

This was going to happen. And there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it, whatever the little voice inside her was trying to say to the contrary.

"I'm sorry Mountain Man. It sounds like you've had some terrible things..." she said quietly

"Don't really give a fuck what you think, Lorelai, so don't be sorry. I don't want you goddam sorry for me. Now, what I want is for you to go upstairs. I can hurt you here, or you can go upstairs. Those are your choices."

"I will give you anything you want to leave now!" she tried bargaining. "Money? Do you want money? My parents are very rich. I can get you money, if that's what you want!"

"Yeah, there's something about a lady slurping a Slushee in the street that just screams money," he laughed. "Upstairs, Lorelai. I prefer a bed."

And he punctuated this point by slamming his cane down onto her coffee table, splintering it down the middle with a loud crack.

Lorelai jumped this time and felt the tears threaten but turned and walked slowly toward the staircase.

"That's better," he nodded.

She started climbing the stairs. Maybe if she hurried she could reach the phone after all? He was clearly slower than she... Maybe it was a good thing she'd taken off her shoes after all...

Almost to the landing, she made her move and dashed up a couple of steps.

But, of course he stopped her.

_Damn it._

He stopped her with the cane. And before she knew it she was on her back on the landing. And pretty sure her leg was broken too. Once you've broken a leg in your life, you're pretty certain if you've done it again.

Oddly, she wasn't crying in pain this time or making any noise. Wonder why, she thought dizzily. And, ow! Her side hurt too, when she breathed... And he was over her now, she knew that. She could smell his breath again. Actually, he was _on_ her. Ripping her shirt open, sliding his hand up under her skirt and ripping away the scrap of silk there (the new blue ones, she thought numbly). She could feel the cool air between her legs now...

Yes, he was on her, though not in her (not yet.) She was trying to focus (she should do something, she knew--but what? Scream? Would anyone hear?) And, confused as she was... the pain so far away she almost wondered if it were someone elses, she looked him right in the eye...

His face just inches above hers...

"You're not going to do this, Mountain Man."

_Was that her voice?_ She couldn't be sure.

"The hell I am," he growled.

"No. You're not."

He froze over her then and looked down into her face.

"You have a daughter," she told him, deadly calm. "_You have a daughter_..."

He blinked at this logic a moment.

"Fuck you!" he whispered.

And she watched, from what seemed a great distance away, as his eyes filled with tears...

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She opened her eyes and looked around groggily. She could hear the TV. That much she was sure of. CNN Headline News.

And then, of course, it all came back to her. She looked around herself. Still on the stair landing.

She tried to sit up but it hurt and she couldn't get her breath and besides, _it hurt!_

"You awake now?" she heard.

She looked down at her legs. One clearly still broken. The other tethered to the newel post with what looked like a knotted belt.

Crap.

She focused on the origin of the voice now, down in the living room. She watched him hoist himself off her sofa with great effort. CNN still droning in the background.

Mountain Man staggered over toward her then. Could he be even more drunk now? she wondered wearily.

"World's going to hell in a hand basket," he told her.

She nodded. Mute. Might've laughed at the absurdity of it all if it wouldn't have hurt so much.

"Fucking war and starvation everywhere," he went on. He stood at the base of the stairway, looking up at her now. An odd expression on his face.

She found her voice then, though it was dry, "I think at some point this evening someone must've plopped me right in the middle of a David Mamet play," she decided out loud. "Or one of those guys who writes those plays like that... You know, where you pay seventy-five bucks to sit in the theater and watch the psychopath terrorize the girl because it's Broadway and therefore must be art?...(her throat still felt scratchy and something tasted salty too. She tried clearing it.) What's the one with the blind girl? Audrey Hepburn played her in the movie."

"_Wait Until Dark_," supplied the Mountain Man, his diction surprisingly crisp.

She nodded and looked at him.

"Okay, Mountain Man, you've broken one leg and tied up the other. You didn't rape me, not that I remember anyway..."

He looked away, "I didn't."

"So, what happens now? Because, buddy, I've got a headache the size of Toledo here."

He regarded her a moment.

"Are your parents really rich?" he asked.

"Yes."

'Then why do you live here?"

"Because I like it and I'm not rich."

"What about your boyfriend?" he asked.

She sighed in irritation, "What about him?"

"Well, do you... _need_ him?"

She paused then, not expecting a question like this.

"_Need?"_

"Yeah, do you need him?"

She looked him in the eye, "More and more by the day."

He nodded.

"What about him? Does he need you?" he asked.

She sighed. _What the hell did it matter now_?

"He doesn't really," she leveled at him, "And I keep waiting for him to figure that out. So chew on that, Big Boy."

Mountain Man nodded.

"My daughter," he began tenuously, lost in his own thoughts... "My daughter... She got caught in one of those car bombs. In Iraq," he told her quietly.

Lorelai swallowed, thinking of Rory. So suddenly incredibly grateful that she was safe at Yale.

"Did she... _Is she_...?"

"I don't know. She's in a hospital over there, but I don't know anything yet." He looked up at her through his drunken haze, as if willing her to understand something.

"I'm sorry for her. She must have been terrified."

They looked at each other for another moment.

"I almost raped you," he told her unnecessarily.

"Go back to your truck, Mountain Man," she told him back.

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The phone was ringing. She could hear it. Far away. Like in Egypt or something. Her phone was ringing in Egypt.... _Why was her phone in Egypt?_

She blinked her eyes open and squinted down. The quilt that had once hung above her on the wall was tucked around her now. The Crazy Quilt she had made. She remembered the day she hung it up. It had rained.

She tried to move a little and groaned in pain. The status of her legs had not miraculously altered since last she checked.

Then the phone rang again... She heard her own voice. She sounded happy; something about Norman Mailer's bladder...

Wait! Hadn't Mountain Man smashed the phone? How could it still ring? she wondered through the fog of her exhaustion. Oh well, who the hell cared...

'Lorelai, pick up the phone! (the answering machine clearly still worked) You were supposed to be here an hour ago and I must have PawPaw and ChinChin at the groomers in forty-five minutes. You understood this perfectly yesterday. Or so you claimed, but I suppose the memory is the first to go in the elderly...."

Oh, right. The phone upstairs. The phone upstairs could still ring.

Mystery solved.

Now, if she could just sleep maybe... she might feel better and then things wouldn't hurt so much...

And then the damn phone was ringing again. Not in Egypt this time. Somewhere closer now, like maybe the Bronx. Why wouldn't Rory answer it?

"Mom! Mom, pick up! I've tried your cell, The Inn, and Luke's. Where are you? Grandma wants to re-re-confirm for Friday and won't leave me alone until I have your formal RSVP to give her..."

Rory! It was Rory. Rory wasn't home, she remembered. And she wasn't in Iraq either. Not like poor Mountain Girl. Lucky, smart Rory...

Thank God...

Sleeping would really be the best thing right now, she thought again... If people would just stop calling and leave her in peace to rest, she could tell them everything they needed to know when she woke up...

_Damn phone._

And she was tired. So tired....

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So, she tried to piece it all together in her mind once again.

But it was difficult because her head still hurt. She knew Luke had come to fix the lock and found her. And that Mountain Man was long gone by then. But she only knew that because Luke had told her so once they were at the hospital and they had awakened her.

And then there were doctors poking and prodding and fixing and stitching and checking, 'Is there any chance that you are pregnant, Miss Gilmore? Before we X-ray you?' 'Anything is possible!' she'd quipped, but amended it quickly at the Stop-Kidding-Around-This-Is-Serious look on Luke's face. 'No, not pregnant', she said hastily.

So here they were now, finally, in the room waiting for family, the police having left after taking the report ('He had bad breath too,' she'd confided at the end of her tale). And Luke was just sitting in the chair against the wall. Silent. His mouth tight.

She wondered what she could possibly say to him. She wondered if things had changed forever.

She knew that they had.

Her leg was broken, her rib cracked, and she had a concussion (seven stitches and a shaved bit of hair proof of that). It would be months before Luke would tell her that her face had been covered with blood when he found her, and even then only in the dark late at night, snuggling under the covers where they both felt safe.

But now there were her parents and Rory to be brave for. To put on the hale and hearty routine for. Because that's what you do when you are sick or hurt or scared, you comfort those you love to protect them from it. So they won't have to suffer too.

And as Rory cried softly into her shoulder, and Emily yelled about her thoughtlessness with the doorlock (promising to order her a Panic Room right away) and Richard stood stoic in the corner, Lorelai felt oddly comforted because these were exactly the reactions she expected of them. And getting what she expected was going a long way to making her feel better right now.

Though through it all, Luke remained uncharacteristically (and miserably) silent.

And, a day or two later, after sleepless nights and well-meaning visitors wanting to hear the story again and again, and she and Luke still not talking about it, she'd had enough and demanded to go home.

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She hobbled down the stairs, one at a time, grateful that the cast came only to her knee this time around. Luke had rehung her quilt at the landing she noted, and the shattered coffee table and phone were gone. Good.

She found him sitting in the kitchen, his arms resting on his knees staring at something in his hands.

She cleared her throat a little and he looked up, surprised to see her there.

"You're up," he tried to smile.

She nodded and waved him off as he hopped to his feet to help her to a chair.

"Coffee?" he asked a bit too brightly.

"Please!"

He poured her a mug and sat down next to her while she sipped.

"So, the new locks are in place," he began. "I had the locksmith come yesterday and do all the doors and windows. I wanted a professional to do it."

"Thank you," she said into her sip.

"I wish you'd think again about an alarm system..."

"No, Luke. No Panic Room. No alarm system."

"Well, I think you should reconsider letting me move in then," he tried. "Rory's for it. Your parents are for it..."

"Luke," she smiled indulgently at him, "I think we are on that track. I really do. But not like this. Not because you're afraid for me."

He nodded morosely.

"I just have to be able to... to come home again. On my own. Though someday, and maybe soon, I would love to come home to you, I need to do this first. I have to get back on the horse. Myself. Or nothing will ever be right."

He sighed, "All right."

She took a sip of her coffee.

"What have you got there?" she asked then.

He looked down into his hand as if he'd forgotten something was there, "Nothing," he evaded.

"Luke..."

"All right," he sighed irritably, "It's your underwear. The underwear that he..." he ended gruffly and got to his feet to walk away from her. He tossed the blue silk into the trash.

"I found them by the back door and then I came in and kicked a hole in your wall right over there," he pointed. She turned her head to look at the foot-sized hole down low by the baseboard, next to her sewing machine.

"I see," she said, taking that in, "Did you hurt your foot?"

"No," he responded.

"Okay. Did it make you feel any better?"

He shrugged, "A little."

"Well... Good," she took another sip.

"I'll replaster it for you on Tuesday."

"No hurry," she said gently.

He nodded and looked at her, "Lorelai..."

"I know, Luke," she nodded, "I understand."

He nodded at that too.

"Luke, I want you to know something," she began a new thought.

He looked at her expectantly.

"I really need you," she told him with meaning, "I mean... I do. I _need_ you you. Not just for locks or coffee, but... for _you_."

He swallowed, "Well, I need you too."

She considered that, "But Luke... _Why_?"

"What?" he asked in confusion.

"I mean, I think it's probably perfectly clear to the world why I need you..."

"I don't know about that..."

"I do," she assured him, "But why on earth would you need me? Aside from the obvious, of course."

"Do not minimize the obvious!" he tried to lighten the mood.

She ignored him, "Luke, why do _you _need _me_?" she demanded.

"Lorelai, that's a crazy question..."

"It's not," she shook her head, "Indulge me, I'm hurt."

He looked at her a moment.

"Well, I just do. I love you. You make me happy," he said simply.

"I do?" she asked in genuine surprise.

"More than anything or anyone ever has."

"B-but, I drive you crazy..."

"Yes, you do."

"But, I make you happy?"

"Yes."

"And, you love me?"

"Yes."

"So, I drive you crazy and make you happy and I love you, and now it turns out that you love me too?" she checked.

He paused and looked at her, a little smile playing around his lips (a real one), "Looks like it."

"Do you think we would have gotten to this point without the Bad-David-Mamet-Play-Slash-'B'- Horror-Movie?"

"If I'm following you right, I sure as hell hope so."

"Then we're going to be okay?"

"As long as you're going to be okay, then I'll be okay," he explained.

She smiled at that and so did he.

"Okay!" she said in relief, "May I have some more coffee now please?"

"Lorelai, you've had enough... The doctor said..."

"Please!"

He sighed then as he poured, "Half a cup. That's it."

She grinned in adoration, "You're so good to me!"


	7. Jack

Dear Ms. Sherman-Palladino,

In _my_ little corner of the world herein lies Cyber Schwab's Drugstore. And I am Lana Turner. With much less perky breasts and a baggier sweater (alas, love handles) and some kind soul with _Access (_perhaps a Norman Main type without the addiction issues) reads my work, (well, not the crappy ones,) and sees in me someone who just might be worthy of the chance to write in actuality as well (if she could find said chance, or be given one, hen's teeth that they are), and to test her mettle in the real world too (where doors are so well-sealed, not even oxygen seeps in). Who could maybe even write a script (or a bit of one).

In this scenario perhaps it is some sort of wacky publicity stunt—'Hey, look at the kooky fan fiction writer! Let's let her write something for the show! It'll be a hoot!' (I could wear a silly hat) Or perhaps not.

Maybe instead it is an act of altruism (I believe in them which may actually preclude me from what I seek). It could just be a leap of faith whereby a successful woman artist says, 'Here is my hand, come learn what I have learned. Let me show you.'

This is a forum for fiction, after all.

I know, I know (as I come down off my caffeine high), not the way it works, you say. Frickin' Disney has ruined women of your generation. Go back to your day job. Esther Blodget, you ain't. (or Daisy Clover either. What was her name before they changed it? _Did they change it?)_

But, as usual, I digress...

Bah! I say, and swear upon the spirit of Imogen Coca too: I am much too full of my own possibility today to hear you, even as I watch the world totter and heave. And, okay, maybe possibility does only exist at Cyber Schwab's.

Then again, I just might wake up tomorrow tall and thin. That would show you.

Sincerely, netherfield

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For SeaWench in gratitude for her work on behalf of us all.

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5.07_ You Jump, I Jump, Jack_ episode addition.

The following Saturday. Long.

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Good crowd tonight, he thought with no little satisfaction.

Yep, business good. The tables were full and turning over too, but without that rushed feeling that he sometimes got, and hated. And, so far, Ceasar had only burned one entree which made the night a record-breaker in his book. He eyed his watch then. Still had about an hour before he had to leave and once he got that weekly errand taken care of, he could go over to Lorelai's.

Which made him smile a little. Grow slightly taller even.

They'd watch Jon Stewart (the _one_ show they could agree on), eat the sandwiches he made (he made a mental note then to check on her toaster again, he didn't like the way it was firing), and then... Well, then his reflective smile grew and was actually perceptible now. And _then..._ Yep, there it still was, that pleasant warm feeling spreading through his body. It was still there. Boy howdy, and in spades. Whenever he thought of her, _of them_...

"What're you smiling for, Luke?"

Luke eyed Kirk and smothered his smile immediately. Nothing worse than thinking about Lorelai, really _thinking_ about her, if you know what I mean, and having Kirk interrupt. In fact, it creeped him out more than a little, having thoughts of Kirk and Lorelai so close together in his brain.

"Not smiling, Kirk."

"You were," Kirk insisted as he took another bite of his Saturday Night Special (meatloaf, mashed potatoes, salad, peas, coffee or tea, and refills, a roll on the side: $7.95.)

"Shut up and eat your peas, Kirk."

"I don't _like _peas," he whined back.

"Eat your peas or I'm calling your mother, Kirk."

"Damn!" groused Kirk, foiled again, as he scooped up some peas.

He turned to grab the decaf (most popular tonight) to make the rounds, visually double-checking the napkin dispensers as he went. Sunday morning after-church sloppy-syrup-sloshers (Lorelai's phrase) went through napkins like popcorn. He always made sure to be well-supplied the Saturday night before.

By the time he was returning the pot to the warmer, he heard the bell ring at the door and in a moment found himself facing, of all people, Richard Gilmore, across the counter.

"Luke," smiled Richard heartily, reaching over to shake his hand.

"Richard," nodded Luke in surprise, reaching out his hand in response (after wiping it on his jeans first.)

"How are you?"

"Oh, you know, working. And you?"

"Ah, practically perfect! In fact, I plan to reach perfection by Thursday!" quipped the tall man.

_He really is tall,_ noted Luke yet again.

"May I sit down?"

"Of course! Is the counter all right? I don't have a table now," he apologized, "We're busy tonight. Saturday nights are like that."

"So I see. So I see. Counter's fine. What Emily doesn't know, won't hurt her, eh? Yes, this is nice," Richard added, once seated and looking about himself, "Reminds me of a little place I used to frequent in Spain. Quaint little Tapas bar."

"Can't say my place has ever been compared to anything Spanish before."

They stared at each other a moment.

"Lorelai's not here," Luke finally managed to get out, not able to conceive of any other reason for Richard's appearance.

"Oh? Well, that's fine. Didn't come to see her, anyway."

"Oh," nodded Luke in understanding. _As if_ he understood that is. "Because she's at the Inn tonight."

"I see."

"Working late."

"Ah."

"She's been putting in a lot of hours."

"Well, that's what it takes to get a new business going."

"Yep."

They stared at each other again. Richard looking up at Luke expectantly from his counter stool.

Finally, Luke cleared his throat, "Can I...? I mean, um, _May_ _I_ get you something, Richard?"

Richard smiled indulgently, "That would be very nice, Luke. What do you recommend?"

"Meatloaf's the best on Saturday night," said Kirk, suddenly standing next to Richard.

"Oh? Well, that sounds fine," said Richard.

"Meatloaf it is," confirmed Luke, still mystified. "Would you like a cup of coffee as well?"

"Yes, don't mind if I do," nodded Richard. "My daughter and granddaughter have been raving about your coffee for years. This is my chance to find out what all the hullabaloo is about!"

"Right. Well, one meatloaf and one cup of hullabaloo coming right up!" Luke joked lamely and then turned away gratefully to give Ceasar the order.

"....So, if Luke hadn't helped me out, I would've had to leave town," he heard Kirk completing a babble as he returned with a mug of coffee.

"Is that so?" asked Richard, his eyes wide.

"Oh, absolutely. And the town would've smelled of rotten eggs for weeks on top of that. So, you can see that it really was a pretty dire situation."

"Yes, well, that would be dire," Richard nodded, thinking about it.

"Kirk!" barked Luke as he set the mug before Richard.

"Well, gotta go!" said Kirk hurriedly, as he pulled his Power Rangers wallet from his pocket. "Nice meeting you, Richard." Richard nodded. Luke bristled. "Your daughter got quite the town catch in Luke here, Richard. I actually attempted to date Lorelai myself at one time, but we all knew that she only had eyes for Luke!"

"_Kirk_..." more of a growl this time.

"And, why shouldn't she, I ask you? Successful businessman, a real pillar of the community—I can't think of anyone he hasn't helped at one time or another. Even saved Mrs. Cassinni from drowning once, but that's another story."

"She slipped in a puddle, Kirk."

"A human being can drown in an inch of water, Luke," Kirk completed this reflection then set his check and money down, "Keep the change, Luke! Nice meeting you again, Richard." he said blithely and turned to go, but not before giving Luke a meaningful wink before running out the door.

Luke clenched his jaw and tried to take a calming breath, before turning back to Richard.

"Curious fellow," Richard furrowed his brow. "Did he say he _dated_ Lorelai?"

"No."

"Thank God. I must have mis-understood then," he shook his head, still perplexed, "He did say that he hid Easter Eggs in a _tree_, though?"

Luke sighed, "I'll go check on your meatloaf, Richard."

Richard nodded and reached for his coffee.

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Luke kept an eye on him, as he made the coffee rounds again, took orders, added up checks. He seemed content enough, sitting at the counter munching his meatloaf, watching the crowd.

But why was Richard Gilmore _here_? In his diner? Must be some reason. Right?

It was too busy (he and Lane hopping all evening without a break) to get a chance to sneak-call Lorelai. And maybe her father was just in the neighborhood and hungry. Maybe that's all it was.

And Lorelai would turn vegan tomorrow.

Finally, as the last of the dallying diners began to go, he topped off Richard's coffee again and offered up pie. The pie and coffee phase was usually when people started to talk.

"Apple okay?"

"Sounds great, Luke."

Luke served and watched Richard in silence for awhile, waiting for the other shoe to land with its proverbial thud.

"So, Luke," he began at last, "Dinner was excellent."

"Well, glad you liked it."

"Just delicious. I can see why Rory and Lorelai come here so often. And the coffee definitely lives up to its reputation."

"Good."

"I was wondering, Luke," _Here it comes_. "Have you had any time to consider the proposition I made you when last we met?"

"Proposition?" Luke blinked.

"The franchise plan," Richard reminded him. "Now that I've been here and seen your place and had a meal, I am more convinced than ever that we could make quite a success of this venture. You've got the right sort of down-home persona that people trust, too. That can go a long way toward success."

"Down-home persona?" repeated Luke. _Was this guy serious?_ "Look, Richard, I don't know if..."

"Excuse me, Luke?"

"Yes, Lane?" he turned in half-relief, half-irritation to the young woman at his elbow.

"I had a question about the health insurance," she said as she pulled some papers from her pocket.

Luke turned a questioning eye to Richard then but was waved off.

"Go ahead, young man, help the girl. I can wait."

And then it was Richard's turn to further appraise Luke as he walked Lane through the health insurance paperwork.

"Is that all clear?" he finally asked her.

"Oh, yes," answered Lane clearly relieved, "The whole co-payment thing just wasn't making sense to me."

"Yeah well, these insurance idiots like to make things as complicated as possible," Luke told her and then looked up quickly at Richard, "Present company excepted, of course," he said, wincing.

"Don't worry about it, Luke," he chuckled. "I'll tell you a secret; We do like things complicated. Can't have everyone understanding everything or we'd be out of jobs, wouldn't we?"

"Thanks so much, Luke," Lane enthused, "Oh, and I've got the big trays and pans packed in the back and ready to go for you. I could borrow Zach's car after closing, and make the delivery for you, if you like."

"No, that's fine, Lane. I'll do it. Just help Ceasar close and go home," he told her and began clearing Richard's plates.

"I didn't know you did delivery as well, Luke."

"Well, I don't as a general rule. But this Saturday night thing is regular and a big order. And the guy's an old friend, so I do him a favor."

"Sounds like good business," Richard nodded approvingly.

"The only _other _deliveries he makes are to Lorelai and Rory," grinned Lane as she passed by with a bussing tray.

"I see."

"Well, they get hungry," Luke shot Lane a glare.

She smiled sweetly in return.

"I imagine they do. Those two can eat like an army."

"Yes, they can. And Lorelai doesn't really cook."

"No, that never happened, I suppose. We had planned to send her to a Swiss finishing school after graduation, but before Yale. They have a fabulous culinary program. Emily feels that a good hostess really should understand sauces. Helps when you're hiring help. But alas, as you know, that was not meant to be..." he trailed off and took an uncomfortable sip of his coffee.

Luke had no idea how to respond to this.

"Well Richard," he tried instead, "I'm glad you came by, but I really need to go drop off this food now."

"Oh? Well, what do I owe you then?"

"Don't worry about it. It's on the house."

"Nonsense, you're running a business here."

"Really Richard, it's fine."

"Well..." began Richard doubtfully.

"Well..." echoed Luke.

Richard stood thoughtfully to go then.

"Listen, I have a thought, Luke..."

"Yes?"

"Why don't I just tag along with you on your delivery?" asked Richard with renewed animation.

"You want to come with me?"

"Absolutely! That way we can talk more about the franchise idea!"

Luke chewed on that a moment, sizing up Richard. Sizing up the situation.

"Fine by me," he decided.

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It all began in uncomfortable Yankee silence as they rode along in the dark.

Luke clenched and unclenched his jaw. What'd Lorelai called her father? The Puppet Master?

What was this man up to?

It was all too clear what Richard Gilmore thought of him.

Well, screw that.

He sneaked a sideways glance at the man himself then. He could literally see the wheels and cogs whirling away.

Luke sighed.

This was a bad idea.

For his part, Richard kept a hand on the truck's dashboard for balance as they bounced along, considering the best approach to the taciturn fellow at the wheel.

"So, Luke," he began, "I'm curious as to how it is that you can afford to offer your employees health insurance."

Luke shrugged, "It's not easy."

"Cuts profits to the bone, I imagine."

"Sometimes."

"But, you do it anyway?"

"Yep."

And they lapsed into another silence for a few moments.

"The profit margin on this diner franchise could potentially set you up for life, Luke," Richard tried again, "You could stop cooking and have a hand in the organization. Be a manager. Have more time for yourself. Work on that golf game. "

"Well, that's a thought, Richard. But, as it happens, I like working."

"Admirable, to be sure. But, it's good to look to the future, son," Richard advised. "And Lorelai's too, of course."

Now we're getting somewhere, thought Luke. This is really all about Lorelai. About being good enough for her. But he'd known that, of course. Luke wondered briefly, after all the stories of betrayal and hurt he'd heard, that had been hinted at, that had probably never been told too... How after all that, this guy was still trying to intercede, to micro-manage Lorelai's life. But, of course, he understood that too.

What wasn't clear was if this was an act of fatherly love on Richard's part, or just dumb pride. Or if Richard even knew the difference.

_That damn Oprah book really screwed with your head there, Butch_.

"Now," Richard continued, slowly circling in on target, "I know that it's presumptuous of me to mention it at this point, but it's never to soon to consider the future."

"No, I suppose it isn't." _Would they never get to Litchfield?_

"Now Lorelai's an independent young woman."

"Yes, she is."

"And she's been keeping Rory and herself in shoes for a long time now."

"No small task."

"Ha! Well put," Richard forced a hearty laugh. Luke rolled his eyes in the dark. "And," he went on, "I don't mind telling you that I've been impressed with the way she's pulled that Inn of her's together."

"Have you told her that?" Luke quirked a brow and glanced over at Richard.

"Excuse me?"

"Nevermind."

Richard decided to let it pass.

"Now, you'll have to allow me to say that I know my daughter pretty well, Luke." Right thought Luke. "She may be independent, but she didn't work so hard to get this Inn going for the fun of it. She's ambitious and I'm sure wants things in life..."

"Here we are!" said Luke more loudly than he intended as he pulled into a sweeping drive. He wondered for a moment if Richard was right.

Richard looked out the window in some surprise, "Why Luke, this is Saint Bartholomew's."

"Yep," confirmed Luke as he pulled around to the back of the old stone church.

"Emily's been trying to get on the Ladies Beneficent Committee here for years."

"Really?" asked Luke as shifted the truck into park and got out.

Richard followed him, continuing to gaze up at the graceful old spires.

"Oh yes, it's a very prestigious charity committee. Terribly exclusive. Impossible to get on unless someone and their grandmother have died."

"Uh hunh," nodded Luke, as he pulled a tarp away in the truck bed and lifted out a large covered aluminum pan.

"They have a lovely 'February Fancy Dress Ball' every year."

"Help me out here, Richard?"

"Oh! Certainly, certainly," said Richard taking two of the large pans.

Luke grabbed the other two and walked toward a door at the back.

"Are they having a function of some kind tonight?"

"You might say that," said Luke. They were inside now and walking down a long hall.

"This is Frederick Wentworth's church, isn't it? And was his father's before that too. Do you attend here, Luke?" Richard asked, impressed.

"Don't go to church."

"Ah."

They were in a large well-lit hall now. People milling about. Richard blinked and looked around him in confusion. "What kind of function is Father Wentworth having exactly?"

"I think they call it 'Soup Kitchen'," Luke responded dryly.

Richard stared more intently at the people then, "B-but there are children here."

"Luke!" called a stocky bald man, crossing energetically toward them.

"Oh hey, Fred," said Luke, "Brought a turkey tonight too."

"Excellent! Thanks so much, Luke. We're a bit long on customers and short on help tonight."

"Oh?" said Luke looking around. Their need was plain. He swiveled his neck back at Richard then (he still taking in the clientele with a mix of revulsion and fascination) and it only took a very fleeting thought process before his decision was made.

Then, he smiled.

"Well, we could help you out tonight, Fred. Get you over the worst of it."

"Really?" beamed the priest, "That would be great! Follow me!"

"Excuse me?" asked Richard focusing in on the men again. But they were striding off toward what was clearly a kitchen now.

Richard hurried after them.

"Drafted us some volunteers!" Fred called heartily to the man and woman already in the kitchen. "What's your friend's name, Luke?" he asked.

Luke smiled, "This is Richard, Fred."

"Welcome and thank you, Richard! You're really saving us tonight."

"Well... uh.. Of course," he stammered in response.

"Wonderful!" beamed the bespectacled woman now. "You!" she called, pointing to Richard.

"Y-yes?" asked Richard a little nervously, eyes wide.

"You're on egg salad duty," she proclaimed.

"Luke, we're not really sure how to get all this organized with so little help tonight," said Fred pulling him aside.

"You'll have to do a buffet. Too many to table-serve," Luke told him, eyeing the situation with an experienced eye.

"That's what I was thinking."

"We'll have to re-arrange the tables though..."

"Luke!" Richard called weakly as he saw the younger man leave back into the dining hall.

"Here you go," said the woman, handing him something.

"What's this?" he asked looking down into his hand.

"Hair net," she told him. "We've got health regulations. And unless you've got a hat like Luke, you've got to wear a hair net. Oh, rubber gloves too. Here you go."

Richard stared down at the offensive articles in his hand, "My good woman..." he began huffily.

"Call me Bea," she said crisply, as she tied an apron around his middle, "Oh dear," she tsk-ed then, "Not a very practical shirt to be wearing on KP duty, I'm afraid. Oh well, can't be helped now, I suppose. Follow me... Richard, isn't it? We got several dozen eggs donated last week. The only thing I can think to do before they go bad is egg salad. So, I've hard boiled them all. And Warren over there has peeled them, so I'll put you on chopping..."

It took a moment for Richard to realize that he was supposed to be following this whirlwind of a woman over to the counter.

Luke glanced over at Richard slyly through the service window (hairnet and gloves on now, he was awkwardly picking up a chopping knife).

"A little more to the right, Fred," Luke instructed with a broader smile now and renewed energy too as they scooted together a pair of long tables to form a buffet.

And then he began to whistle a little as he rolled up his sleeves.

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"Hey."

"Hey, sweetie. Where are you? You're missing 'The Moment of Zen' as we speak."

Luke sighed, "Yeah, sorry about that. Fred was caught shorthanded tonight."

"Oh? Do you need me to come over and help out?"

"No, it's all winding down now. This is just the first chance I've had to call you. We had a little mishap."

"Nothing serious, I hope?"

"No. Listen, did you eat?"

"Of course I did!"

He sighed, "I thought I hid the poptarts."

"Not very well. You're going to have to climb a couple of leagues to hide food successfully from me, my friend. And no fair asking Rory for advice!"

"Fair enough," he conceded, then added, "I'm... I'm sorry that I couldn't make it over, Lorelai."

"Well, tell you what... You know where the extra key is, right?"

"Yes," he was liking the sound of this.

"Well, when you're finished, just come on over. You know, a la Mae West."

"So, I should 'Come up and see you some time'?"

"Yep. Only make it tonight. Specifically.

"I don't want to wake you," he said doubtfully.

"Please," he heard the smile in her voice, "Wake me, Big Boy: _Specifically."_

"Well, okay then."

"Okay."

"See you later, Lorelai. Specifically."

"Yep, _specifically later, Big Boy_," she giggled in her best Mae West accent.

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"I will never look at eggs the same way again."

Silently, Luke had to agree.

Richard leaned his head against the back window of the truck and sighed wearily. He was ashen. All this almost made Luke pity the guy. _Almost._

"Emily will never get on that committee now," he groaned.

"Not likely," Luke concurred, as he turned down the highway toward Stars' Hollow.

"Father Wentworth was a little upset."

"Yes, he was," Luke had to agree.

"But, Thank God we found it," Richard went on.

"Yep."

"I mean someone could have choked to death. And the thing was practically invisible. As if intentionally camouflaged for egg salad..."

"Richard, I'm still not clear: How exactly did you manage to slice off the end of your rubber glove without A.) Noticing or; B.) Cutting yourself?"

"I'm not sure," Richard answered miserably. "All I know is, one minute I'm handing the bowl to Bea to serve, and then the next, as I went to take off the gloves, I noticed that... Well, that one of the fingers was missing."

Luke nodded.

"My God, the liability if someone had eaten it!" Richard shuddered.

"Wouldn't have been so great for them personally, either."

"There must have been a thousand pounds of that goddam egg salad!"

"A helluva lot anyway."

"And I stood there for an hour _in a hairnet_ , for God's sake, digging through that proverbial Everest of egg salad practically with my bare hands!"

"Well, your gloves were pretty much lost causes at that point," Luke offered helpfully.

"With all those people watching."

"Think of it as Dinner Theater, Richard."

Richard moaned and closed his eyes at that.

And they lapsed into a long silence then.

"Well, it's clear that I don't know a thing about working in a kitchen," commented Richard finally.

"Some people are just check writers."

"Indeed," agreed Richard and opened his eyes then to look shrewdly at Luke. "I couldn't have looked more foolish in front of Father Wentworth if it had been prearranged."

"Don't underestimate yourself, Richard. Look at it this way, at least you kept your actual finger."

"I need a drink," responded Richard, "A stiff drink. And I must say that you confound me, Luke."

"Don't know what you're talking about, Richard. Big words and all."

"Hmmm," said Richard knowingly, "Not averse to taking advantage of a situation when you can though, eh?"

"Well, I am a businessman, Richard."

"Humpf."

"Well, here's your car," said Luke as he pulled over in front of the diner."

"Thank you."

"My pleasure."

"I'm sure I'll be seeing you again soon, Luke."

"I'm not going anywhere, Richard."

"I haven't given up on that franchise idea you know, young man."

"Didn't expect you to."

"And, think about what I said earlier, about _really knowing Lorelai_," Richard volleyed this parting shot before climbing out of the truck.

"Will do."

Richard leaned down to the window then, "Goodnight, Luke."

"Uh, Richard?"

"Yes?" he sighed in irritation.

"You've got a little egg salad..." Luke pointed to the general area about a quarter of an inch below Richard's right eye.

Richard withdrew a handkerchief then and swiped at his face, looked distastefully down at the yellow blob then back over at Luke.

"Thank you," he said with great dignity and turned to go to his car.

"Sure. Goodnight, Richard."

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He quietly climbed up her stairs, liking the feeling of being invited to do so. Surely, he knew her, he mused then. He'd been around. For years, he'd been around. Had seen her cry. Had plunged her toilet. Yelled at her. Fed her. Made love to her.

Surely he knew her better than he. _But, he is her father_, his brain told him.

Well, screw that, he grumped.

And she knew him too. Right?

She did. And still it was all okay. Great even. Knowing each other hadn't ruined anything so far. He knew her. She knew him. She didn't quiver and pout when he ranted. Nicole had told him that the world must think him pretty mean the way he went on at times. That he was on the short bus to being a sour old man. (Then again, he'd thought he'd known Nicole too.)

Now he sighed.

But his rants didn't phase Lorelai. At all. Never had. _Had they?_ She'd ignore him, or cajole him out of it. Knew that it meant nothing. Because she knew him. As he knew her. Her parents were the ones she ran from. He was the one she ran to.

_Damn self help book._

Sure, they knew each other, he tried to reason with himself. She snored. He hogged the covers. All this they knew. And more.

The little stuff.

_But what about the big stuff?_

Well, they'd talked about that too. _Only that was before._

Damn Richard Gilmore and his manipulations to hell!

He switched off the hall light she'd left on for him then and creeped into the bedroom, lest she was asleep.

He stood at the foot of her bed, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. When they did, he saw her smile up at him sleepily as he peeled off his clothes. He climbed under the covers, as she slid over, leaving him the warm spot. He wrapped his arms around her from behind.

"Hey! Your feet are cold, Big Boy!" she complained.

"And you are nice and warm, Mae West," he whispered in her ear.

"Yes, I am."

"Still glad you asked me to come up and see you?" he smiled and breathed in her hair.

"Absolutely," she purred, molding her body against his.

"Hey, Lorelai?"

"Hmmm?"

"Remember the other morning when I was cleaning your kitchen?"

"Ummmhmmm..." she was wiggling her hips slightly into his groin now.

"And, I asked you to hand me the spray cleaner from under the sink?"

"Yep," she yawned and turned to face him now and began lightly kissing his sandpaper chin.

"Well when you did, I didn't need to look down to see if you had turned the little square knob from 'closed' to 'spray'."

"Okay," the oddity of this statement stopped even Lorelai Gilmore cold in her tracks. She looked at him curiously, fully awake now.

"I mean, I knew you wouldn't have bothered," he explained.

"No, I usually don't. That's true."

"You just leave it on 'spray' all the time because it's easier, right?"

"Honey, have you been _inhaling_ the spray?" Lorelai sat up now to peer down at him.

"Just listen, I'm trying to say something," he told her and propped himself up on his elbows.

"About cleaning spray?"

"No."

"Okay." She waited.

He looked up at her intently, "It's just that... Well, driving over just now I realized that if anyone else had left the bottle on 'spray'... You know, and hadn't turned it to 'closed', which is what any sane person would do when they put it away in the cupboard in the first place..."

"Luke?" Lorelai was trying to understand. She really was.

"I'm just saying that if anyone else had done that: Left the knob on 'spray', it would have driven me crazy. But, when you do it, it doesn't. Because I know you."

"Well yes, you know me very well," she confirmed gently.

"But... _Do I?_" He really wanted to know.

"Honey, what is this about?"

"I just want to be sure that we really know each other, that's all," he finished and looked at her uncertainly.

Lorelai regarded him a moment.

"Luke, besides Rory, I don't think anyone has ever known me better than you."

"Really?" he asked, relieved.

"Yes."

"Big things _and_ little things?"

She looked at him quizzically for a moment, "Well, I'd like to think there are still some surprises ahead of us."

"Right."

"But, though I'm not sure where this is all coming from, let me assure you that it amazes me daily that you do know me so well and yet still want me. What with being a spray bottle harlot and all."

He smiled in relief then.

"Well, likewise. About the amazement part."

"Now see," she smiled comfortingly then, "I knew you were going to say that."

"Oh really?" he smiled too and wrapped his arms back around her.

"Oh yes," she snuggled close again, "And I know you so well that I can accurately predict right now, with one-hundred percent certainty, that you are going to wear plaid tomorrow."

"Probably the same plaid I just dropped on your floor over there," he rolled his eyes.

"Probably," she admitted, "And by way of return, you can probably tell me right now, this very minute, what beverage I am going to desire seven long hours from now," she continued dramatically, "It's astounding really, when you think about it..."

"Lorelai?"

She looked up at him innocently. "Shut up?"

"Yep," he confirmed, nuzzling her neck now.

"Now see? I knew you were going to say that too..."


	8. Over

5.08 _The Party's Over_ episode addition. The following Sunday (between noon and four).

One Good Parody Deserves Another... Parody. Of much lesser quality.

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14 November 2004

My Dearest Sister,

As you see, I am continuing to honor my promise to write to you once each week. At first, when I made this promise, I did not think it would be difficult to be faithful to. Three months is after all only twelve weeks. I thought that I could easily compose twelve letters of interest even to your level of satisfaction, Sister. But, as my stay has been most kindly granted an extension, I know that my weekly letters have, in all probability, been decreasing in level of interest to such an extent as must be considered 'plunging'.

This was perhaps due in part to my diet. Or the fact that I rarely am allowed out of the house and have already catalogued for you the entire inventory of antiquities in the building where I reside, complete with provenances (forgive me, I am not certain of the correct plural for this usage).

Rejoice, Dearest Sister, the interest level of my letters will now rise and approach titillating, I assure you most vigorously! For, I have degraded myself insomuch that I now _sneak out _at certain prescribed times. And so, here I am in the wide, though provincial, world that is Stars' Hollow! I am out to observe and eat too. I have no specific tasks to accomplish on behalf of my benefactress (though she assumes I am currently sanding the large collection of cedar shoe trees of worthy vintage she recently procured).

I have come instead to a small restaurant in this town to sit and eat fries and to take on the task of writing you a letter which I modestly hope will be of upmost interest to you, My Dearest Sister. I have endeavored to take scrupulous notes for your edification and to exercise my vocabulary as well, and have referred often to the Korean to English dictionary and thesaurus too, which sit at my elbow even now.

Please do not mourn my disobedience in the stealthy venture I have undertaken, Dear Sister (or tell our parents, or that particular friend of yours either who is so well versed in the ways of blackmail to achieve her ends—I still ponder longingly on the chocolates I gave her weekly for a year after she caught me listening to a Bobby Darin album against our parents' express wishes.)

Despite all the sinful acts in my life (I now take on an extra hour of prayer nightly to recompense), I think I can guarantee that you will be grateful for my efforts in this letter writing matter. And, as sure as 'You break it, you buy it!' are words to live by, I will do my faithful best for your entertainment.

Besides it's good to practice writing in English and overlistening in it too, don't you agree?

But first of all, by way of general cultural information (which I gather most eagerly), I must confirm the general notion held world-wide that Americans eat disgustingly large portions of food that are unhealthful in the extreme. I add this caveat, however: Lots of them taste good! (The foods, not the Americans! Ha! Ha!) Also, I have learned on a recent national holiday, Americans honor their war dead by staying home from school and shopping.

Today, however, I am enjoying a specialty of this establishment called 'chilli fries'. These are fries (as we have seen at the McDonalds in Seoul) with the addition of a spicy meat and bean stew-like topping with cheese and onions 'on the side' too. Delicious I say, though my breath is definitely left the poorer friend for it.

But now, Dearest Sister, I will keep you in suspense no further. I must will tell you of this day. It is dramatic in epic style. Full of star-crossed lovers, anger and adultery, and potential mothers-in- law too, of course! For what would Epic Drama be without these?

I will begin my tale with the hero. Of sorts. He is in fact not very heroic at all. He is instead terrifying and grouchy and seems to do nothing but yell like a lion at everyone he cares about (perhaps poor Aesop should remove his thorn! Ha! Ha!) But we will make do with him. He is the proprietor of this diner (their word for small restaurant)—which I am hoping to frequent often now (I am thinking of myself as a sultry expatriate wearing leather in café society!)

But I diverge from my path. His name is Luke, this proprietor and Our Hero. He owns this diner and frequently does the cooking as well apparently. Many of the townspeople converge at some point during the day here to meet, share news, and talk behind one another's backs. The tourists come through this town as well as it is considered quite historic and picturesque. They like to buy small plastic things.

The daughter of my patroness, Lane Kim, works as waitress here. At first I had expected her to have a tattooed and shaven head by the whispered accounts I'd heard of her (as I've told you before), but she has turned out to be a kind and clever girl, and very wise too. She does not however favor the Rat Pack much or Bobby Darin either, which is something I find quite inexplicable.

Today is Sunday so the diner is quite busy. Many people come here from church. My kind patroness, having resurrected Mrs. Cho's faith yesterday, has gone to her _Crochet for Christ! _charitable group today. Hence my reprieve.

At twelve thirty-three pm, Mr. Doose (you remember my telling you of his loss in the recent town election? My benefactress is still quite sad about this.)... Anyway, Mr. Doose came in to sit at the counter to have oatmeal, coffee, and an oatbran muffin (I find this admirably courageous!)

Our hero Luke and Mr. Doose (whom I now designate 'Character Actor') argued briefly at this point. I recount the essentials of this for you here.

**Luke**: Taylor (Mr. Doose's Christian name), I am getting sick and tired of hearing that damn song over and over. It's like frickin'(an exepletive, Dearest Sister) water torture!

**Mr. D**.: Ice Cream trucks play music, Luke!

(In America, to save on exercise, oversized ice cream desserts are driven around in refrigerated trucks and sold out small windows. This allows Americans greater time to watch television.)

**Luke**: I know they play music, Taylor! They just don't have to circle the town square (I do not understand circling _a square _either, Sister) five times every hour on the hour playing the one same frickin' (see note above) song over and over and frickin' over! Besides, it's _fall!_

**Mr D**: The tourists like it, Luke. It's _quaint._

**Luke**: Just another word for steaming pile of crap.

**Mr. D**.: What?

**Luke**: It's annoying, Taylor! Get a new song!

**Mr D**: What is wrong with _The Purple People Eater_, I ask you?!

(I googled this song at the library myself just last week, Sister, so great was my own annoyance with its repetitiveness. There is a great deal wrong with this song, I assure you.)

**Luke**: Taylor, do you really need to ask that question?

This fascinating tete a tete was then interrupted by the entrance (at two minutes past one) of our Leading Lady and Ingenue. Their names are Lorelai and Rory Gilmore. Rory is Lorelai's daughter. I have seen them often in town, and though Rory attends prestigious Yale University she seems to be there but rarely.

They are both very beautiful, Dear Sister. Lorelai wears excessive amounts of make-up and tight, revealing clothes that are also sometimes shiny. She is a very glamorous American indeed! And looks just like a television star and not a real woman at all. I cannot decide if her daughter Rory (who is also very pretty, though less shiny) is ladylike and meek, or merely perpetually petulant (I have been studying alliteration in English Composition class, Sister. How was that?) At any rate, the poor thing is clearly awaiting spinal surgery.

Today, the Misses Gilmore looked very glum, I am saddened to tell you . After seating themselves at a corner table, Lorelai suggested to her daughter that a great deal of fried food might perhaps improve her spirits (I admire her nationalism in this). Alas, Rory slumped even further into the table and mumbled (to the best of my hearing) 'Whatever you want'.

Then Our Hero walked over to these ladies presumably to take their orders for fried food. It is then that I believe I saw a very fleeting smile cross his lips. I am wary to assure you of this, however, as it was gone before I saw it. Like a ghost.

Here I should include a small item of exposition, Dearest Sister: Apparently Our Hero and Leading Lady have been carrying on a romantic affair for awhile now which frequently involves noisy relations of a carnal nature in the rooms above the diner (It is sometimes quite surprising what you will hear ladies discuss in the church cloakroom). My benefactress, who offers the way of salvation to this lady each year on Thanksgiving over Tofurkey (which is, sadly, just what you think it is) assures me that this affair is much more scandalous than even Ingrid Berman's absconding to Italy!

I think this lady Lorelai is very racy indeed!

They all talked then, these three, of food and the ladies' desire for coffee. And though the proprietor sells coffee (and must profit highly from it too), he mysteriously discouraged them from ordering it. It is in this context that the following perplexing, though humorous, exchange took place.

**Lorelai**: But Luke, we need the coffee!

(This was said, Dear Sister, with impressive passion)

**Luke**: No you don't!

**Lorelai**: We do! I, for one was up very late last night. Very _actively_ up, I might add...

**Luke**: Oh, Geez.

**Rory**: Do not make me hum with my fingers in my ears!

(I am unable to understand the point of this last proclamation. She wouldn't be able to hear anything if she did this.)

**Luke**: Fine. That's you. What about Rory? Why does she need coffee? She is still young.

**Lorelai**: Because she's had a very bad weekend and because, if you must know, was _bedazzled_ by _My Mother_!

(I find _this_ statement a cause for great alarm, Dear Sister! Only yesterday I was able to furtively watch eleven and a half minutes of television during which I saw a most amazing program about a device called a _Bedazzler _which is very reasonably priced. It is used to secure reflective discs onto items to make them ugly. I don't pretend to understand the point.)

**Luke:** She was _what_?

(He is right to be worried. If I understood this device correctly, it would be painful in the extreme to bedazzle a young girl. I wonder if I should inform the authorities about Rory's cruel treatment at the hands of her grandmother?)

**Lorelai**: Seriously, Luke, Liberace was dim by comparison, such was the wattage thrust upon my only child.

**Luke**: You know, _nevermind._ I don't know why I bother. I am getting the coffee.

**Lorelai**: Hey, maybe that sleeping with you thing is finally starting to pay off a little.

(I believe this last statement was intended to be dirty!)

**Rory**: _Mom!_

**Luke**: Getting coffee now. And getting away from you.

**Rory**: You scared off Luke!

**Lorelai**: He'll come back.

(This lady is very confident of her lover. Apparently she provides him with complimentary dairy products. Though I am uncertain why it is that Rory believes he is unhappy about this...)

**Rory**: Not after getting the milk for free, he might not...

**Lorelai**: Ha. Ha.

(I must confess here, Dear Sister, that I am quite exhausted in my attempts to write down the entirety of what these people say. The ladies in particular talk with great rapidity. I feel, in view of this, that I must abandon my previous script-like format and focus only on what is being said. I think speakership will become clear within context. I will, of course, continue my insightful interpretation.)

"So, go ahead, Mom."

"Go ahead... _What?_"

"Go ahead and tell Luke that Dean and I broke up."

(Ah! Here is something 'juicy' indeed! Apparently Rory and her boyfriend Dean have ended their relationship, which, you may remember from two letters ago, caused the break up of his child- marriage. Americans have very little regard for such promises as are made at a wedding. I will be quite celebrated with this news in the cloakroom on Sunday!)

"Rory, I wasn't going to do that."

"Yes, you were."

(The following, I believe, is an argument between the mother and daughter about the former's ability to hold a secret. Apparently she is often unsuccessful at this. Hence her repository of witty slang-like jargon on the subject.)

"I _wasn't_! I can keep mum."

"Whatever."

"You won't see me crack like an egg!"

"Here we go..."

"Or, sing like a bird!"

"Or?"

"Eat the cheese!"

"Just get it over with. Be a rat. Tell him. I don't care anymore."

"But..."

"Go!"

"All right! All right! I'm going... Just hold off on the bamboo reeds..."

(I declare, Sister, it was all I could do to prevent chilli spurting out my nose, so amused was I by this! But, in an impressive attempt to remain unobserved, I managed self-control. It was then that our Leading Lady got up from her table and crossed to have private words with her lover, Our Hero, who was standing at the counter occupied with his order notebook.)

"Uh, Luke... hey."

"Hey."

"Listen.. Um, Dean just broke up with Rory."

"What? _Again!_ Is that kid completely screwed up?!"

"Keep it down."

"_Why_ would he do that?"

(_Why indeed_, Sister! For the young lady is from a very wealthy, although cruel bedazzling family, and the young man is only a poor grocer's assistant.)

"He seems to think he isn't good enough for her."

(Alas, an old, old story.)

"Oh."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No, Luke, _something_. So, _what?_"

"Nothing... Just... your parents are real good at... putting _that_ out there, aren't they?"

"Luke..."

(I am wondering now if the grandparents attempted to bedazzle Luke as well, such is the look of apprehension on his face at this, Sister.)

"It's all right, Lorelai."

"You thought the same thing about him."

"Yes, I did."

"Though probably for reasons other than class. Despite the Princess symbolism. And anyway, my mother made it very clear that it's too late for me. So, let's focus on Rory now."

(I am puzzled here, yet again, Sister, by the great ignorance Americans possess on issues of class. I wonder why is it, for instance, that they persist in the delusion that belonging to the upper class is only a condition of financial wealth. It is, I suppose, because they have also been deluded into the fantasy that each and every one of them might also one day be wealthy. Were it not so sad, it would be funny. But, on with our drama!)

"Strawberries or chocolate chips?"

"Um, I'm thinking both."

"I'm on it."

"Luke?"

"Yes?"

"You know I'm the one not good enough, right?"

"Sure."

"I mean I do give the milk away for free. Or at least partly in exchange for coffee anyway..."

(This is precisely what I was speaking of before, Sister! The _privilege_ of class. Apparently this lady Lorelai has the means to give away dairy products to poor diner owners, and offer her sexual favors in exchange for coffee! And society at large does not bat an eye! The upper classes are a different breed, I tell you. Now, wait until you read the following bit of scintillation, Sister! It is stage-like enough to be _on television _and not real life at all!)

"Will I ever understand you?"

"No, but you love me anyway!... uh... _Oops! _Luke... I didn't mean to..."

"I know. It's fine, Lorelai."

"I... just... Okay, going back to my seat now! Because that thing that I just said? Just way too soon to be in this movie, right? I mean we've hardly finished the popcorn and haven't even gotten to the Red Vines yet... Okay, _that_ was stupid! This is what happens when I try to talk before consuming sufficient amounts of carbs..."

"Right."

"Luke, wait!"

"I was going to make Rory's pancakes."

But, Luke, _do you?_

"What?"

"Because I do you. I mean I'm pretty sure I do. No, I'm sure. I do. _I know _I love you... in fact."

"_Seriously? _You're bringing this up here and now?! Rory's broken hearted over there. And Ceasar's already burned three orders of waffles... _And_ it's Sunday. You know what Sunday means..."

"Right. The rush. I know, I know. Sorry! No carbs, remember? Just forget it. Walking back to my table now..."

"Lorelai!"

"What?"

"Me too. I... do too. And, _in fact_."

"Well... that's good, Luke."

"Yeah, good... Well... Glad we got that over..."

"Okay."

"That came out wrong."

"It's okay, Luke. I get it."

"Could we talk more about this _tonight_?"

"Certainly."

"Gonna go make pancakes now."

"Gonna go back to Rory now."

"You do that."

(Hahahahahaha! Do you see, Sister? Better even than TV! The funniest part was when Lorelai tripped over a chair on her way back to the table. Fortunately, her daughter was able to catch her despite her hunchback. But then... _Then_, the plot-thickened, My Sister. Thickened well and stewey indeed, for who should walk in now at one twenty-seven looking all lightning and thunder, but the grandmother! As soon as I realized who she was, I clutched on to my purse lest I should have to run away. And though I caught no sight of the Bedazzler anywhere on her person, I remained alert anyway, for her purse was very large.)

"Lorelai! Rory! _At last _I found you! Don't know why I didn't look here first."

"Mom? What are you doing here?"

"Well a sunny Good Afternoon to you too, Lorelai. May I sit down?"

"I repeat; Mom, what are you doing here?"

(I can tell you, Sister, I would not be so bold with this woman, given her reputation for violence!)

"I wanted to speak to Rory. You've clearly both been screening my calls so as not to talk to me, so I had no alternative but to come here."

"Cornered us in our natural habitat, hunh?"

"Well, if you must put it that way, then yes."

"What do you want, Mom?"

"Could we go someplace private?"

(I was relieved when Lorelai ignored this request. It is best to have witnesses about in such situations.)

"Grandma, I don't really want to talk..."

"Mom, she doesn't want to..."

"I heard her, Lorelai. But this must be addressed. The other night, Rory seemed... not herself... when she left the party. I was concerned.."

"_Not myself_?! That's very funny, Grandma."

"Rory..."

"No, Mom. That's it! This conversation is over."

(And with admirable spunk this frail young thing uncurled her back and arose to her considerable height and _stood up straight_! I nearly wept with pride for her, Sister. It cannot be easy to stand up to one who has bedazzled you.)

"Sit down, young lady!. We haven't even started this conversation yet."

"No, Grandma, I won't. I just said that I am _not having _this conversation with you! But, you know what? On second thought, since you are here I have to say, '_Wasn't myself_,' Grandma? Isn't that what you just said? '_Wasn't myself?!' _Well, that's rich. Yes, indeedy, it is. Because you're right. You are. I wasn't myself. Clearly I was nothing more than Emily's_ Bedazzled Rory_.

(Inwardly I cheered; You shall overcome, Rory!)

"Lorelai, what is your daughter saying?"

"I'm not sure... Rory?"

"And I'm not just _Stars' Hollow Rory _either, Mom! Pancakes will not fix this for me. Not anymore."

(It must be hard rebel against one's culture too)

"Honey, where is all this coming from?"

"I–I don't know! _I don't know_! I'm not sure I even know who Rory is anymore!"

"Rory, that's not true."

"Yes, it is! I care about Dean. I do. I wanted it to work. I still may, b-but he doesn't know who Joseph Mitchell even is!"

(_Imbecile_.)

"_Who?_"

"Exactly!"

"Rory..."

"And I don't want to wear diamonds, Grandma!"

(I suppose diamonds must always appear in epic class drama. It is a mystery to me how they fit in exactly here though.)

"Well, I beg your pardon for trying to offer you an opportunity to..."

"And Mom, I have to work this out for myself! I am going back to Yale to write and study and read books. Because that's what I do know about me. And what I want. What I've always wanted."

(Ah, the Intelligentsia. A whole other category. Don't need money for that.)

"O-okay, kid. No diamonds. No pancakes. Books. Yale. Got it. Do you want to sit back down now, honey? I mean, judging by the deathly silence in here, the opening of Diner Theater needs another out of town run."

"No, I don't want to sit down. In fact, I'm going now. Tell Luke sorry about the pancakes."

"It's all right, Rory, I heard."

"I think everyone in this establishment heard your daughter, Lorelai."

"Oh Luke, I'm sorry!"

"Don't worry about it, Rory."

"I'm leaving now."

"Okay."

"And, Luke?"

"Yes, Rory?"

"When my mom tells you she loves you, you say it back with _the real words _and _out loud_ too! Do you understand me?! I don't care how busy Sundays are, dammit!"

"O-okay... What? _Now?_"

"This evening will suffice. _Now_ this conversation is over! Sorry I interrupted everyone's lunch!"

And all watched in awe then as our former Ingenue, now Heroine, strode proudly from the establishment.

It was very quiet in the diner then, Dearest Sister. Everyone staring so at Lorelai, her mother, and Luke too. All three of whom seemed at considerable losses as to which course to pursue next.

"All right, people, show's over. Resume talking and stuffing your faces now!"

This elegant comment was made by Our Hero, of course. His patrons complied immediately due to his intimidating presence (which I alluded to earlier.) But you know me well enough, Sister, to know that this show was not over for me at all. I continued to slyly observe the two remaining ladies...

"Well, Lorelai, I hope you're happy."

"As it happens, Mom, I am in a way."

"After that scandalous, ungrateful public scene she just caused? Why, you're _proud_ of her, aren't you?!"

"Yes, I think I might be, Mom."

"Well, that's wonderful, Lorelai. I am at a complete loss..."

"I know you are, Mom. And I'm sorry about that. You'll probably shop the lovely Lillian Vernon catalogue before you understand me. Or maybe Rory either. And I really am sorry about that."

And thus we now find our dramatics at an end, Dearest Sister.

I wish I could report otherwise, as it has all been most edifying and entertaining too. But the Bedazzling Character Actress made her exit then in what can only be called, in American terms, 'a huff'. It is too bad.. I feel an excellent potential match could have been made as I saw Character Actor Mr. Doose looking at her with great interest. (I doubt he knows of the bedazzling) though this might make my patroness a bit green.

But _that's_ another story. Must save some titillation for my next letter!

Our Leading Lady left presently as well. Presumably to seek out her daughter, but perhaps only to shop for clothes. I cannot say which.

I do know that they all three must be very hungry by now.

And now that I have written out this fine pageantry for you, Dearest of Sisters (they all long gone, it is three fifteen now), I hope you will offer a kind gesture in return, and send immediately to me my Ralph Lauren jeans and purple cowgirl sweater I leant you six months ago (Please note the post office box number below, my new mailing address for receiving personal mail.)

I have only forty-five minutes of leisure now to mail this letter, buy secret lip gloss, and sand shoe tress, so I must hurry. Tonight I will pray for the Gilmore family in hope that they may find harmony and true familial love with one another, but I am afraid that this may only happen in heaven itself.

Meanwhile, I must say, they provide great earthly entertainment for us all!

From_ ... Somewhere Beyond the Sea,_

Your Most Devoted and Loving Sister, Kyon

P.S. Bobby Darin forever!


	9. Hello

5.09 _Emily Says Hello _episode addition (in a thematic sort of way).

'_Making it up to you_' and Thanksgiving. Promo alluded to. Not spoilers.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**I.**

"Hello." she heard.

She tried to focus her eyes. Tried to remember where she was.

"Hello," she answered, remembering now, "Sorry I fell asleep on you again."

"It's okay," he assured as he gazed down at her upon his pillow. He could see her eyes clearly now.

_So blue._

"I do that," she sat up and rubbed at the crick in her neck, "I fall asleep in weird places. Kinda famous for it."

"It's fine, Rory."

"Well, I 'll get off your bed now and head home."

"I'll walk you."

"Oh, that's not necessary, Marty."

"It's late. And it's raining. I don't mind."

"Well, okay then. You're a good friend."

"What _I'm_ famous for..." he mumbled from the closet as he dug for an umbrella, and then, "Do you think this will do?" he asked and presented her with a battered rusty black thing.

"Well, it's no Hello Kitty model, but it'll keep us dry," she approved.

**II.**

Hello, what a surprise; It's the fucking Dark and Stormy Night, he thought ruefully.

Cliches and bad weather aside, he kept walking anyway.

Slapping through the puddles and trying not to think about it. Thinking about it anyway. Still walking. Still thinking about it. Growling occasionally. Moving away from her house when, with each step, he knew he should just turn around and go right back. Go right back and try to explain.

But he'd never done that before.

Not about this.

Because after thirty years, he still didn't understand it himself. Hadn't talked to anyone about it. Ever. Not since that night.

Rachel in her day, suspicious, had fished around (to his annoyance) and finally gone to the library and looked it up on microfiche. It had been a big story in it's day. Sad and at holiday time. That always drew lots of the pruriently curious dressed up as the sympathetic. Once she knew, she'd left it to lie, more or less. Probably hadn't known what to say. There had been some long knowing stares and a few half-asked questions after that. But then she'd left and it hadn't mattered any more.

And Liz, through the years, even before their dad had died, had called it 'Survivor's Guilt', and had periodically encouraged him to go see a shrink. Usually when she was stoned which made the whole idea moot. Because when she was sober again she would just forget about it in her hurry to run away. And he still couldn't understand why it was never with a look of reproach or word of blame tossed over her shoulder at him as she went. Which was a large part of why he always bailed her out.

Well, he probably would have done that anyway.

The rain was soaking through his old green coat now. And he was well out along the old back highway. It was late. He didn't know how late. Didn't really care.

He sighed again.

'_....He thought expressions of intimacy were a gift to his partner, but he was wrong. They should be given freely...'_

Dammit.

He should be in bed with Lorelai right now.

Not exactly the intimacy Phillip had been on about, but it sounded better than the alternative right now.

And it had been their unspoken, though mutually understood plan. Dinner, a movie on TV, then bed. It was what they did. It worked for them. And now here he was. Cold and with old black and white home movies flashing in his head. Well, the parts he could remember anyway. The Super Eight images getting choppier through the years. Mostly it was just the feeling of it. Feelings brought back by the damndest little things.

Well. Fuck that.

He kept walking.

Nicole, of course, never knew. He'd made sure of that. Thought if he tried, made himself over, began again, he'd have his chance. Sure she knew something was there. But didn't press him on it. Which was partly why they lasted as long as they did. This way he could pretend that this was his new life. And what had happened so long ago was really still back there. Long ago.

And nowhere near the here and now. In the smokey evening-smell that burned in his throat from every chimney in town. Not in the frickin' orange and red leaves he could remember she loved. And certainly not in the dried out curves of the hand-planed wood in the garage. The planks shrunken so far away from one another now, no pitch or sealant could ever mend them.

"What _is it _with you and fall? Seasonal Affective Disorder or something?" (_hunh?_) she'd wanted to know, in that nosey Lorelai way. "You're always so grumpy this time of year. Would a few decorations kill you? Just a pumpkin? A cute little pilgrim? It's beautiful out! Be happy, damn it!"

So he changed tactics (away from the Taylor decorating rant) and tried to distract her with his theory about men who drive expensive foreign cars (only overcompensating for their shortcomings) but she wasn't buying it.

And started to bother him again.

And, as she needled him, and asked questions he didn't want to answer, he suspiciously wondered if she'd had a word from Liz. A warning of some kind. Of course! What else would it be? Why else would she bug him about Thanksgiving decorations or the time of year? Obviously they'd been talking about _it._ Well, specifically what had happened when he was a kid. And him too. And pretty soon, if he didn't nip this right in the bud, the fucking sympathy (or pity or blame, depending) would fire up in her eyes and he'd have to get the hell away.

And why couldn't she just let it alone? Like the rest. Just let it be.

But then did this woman ever let a goddam thing be? No, she did not.

He kicked a rock viciously into the road and kept walking. Still raining but there was enough moonlight to keep going.

So finally, when she'd pressed too far, he let it rip. With both barrels.

"Just because we sleep together doesn't mean you get to go everywhere in my life!" he'd shouted, and then watched, as if from a great distance, as this seemed to physically ricochet off her body and ring in the air between them. She'd even taken a defensive step backward away from him, wrapping her arms around herself. Her eyes wide.

It hurt now to think of it.

She'd blinked at him for eternally long moments then, stunned, until finally, quietly, "My mistake," and turned to go upstairs.

He should have followed and explained.

But he didn't. He left instead. And slammed her door too.

How could he explain it anyway? It was so long ago. He'd been a kid. Pretty much why it happened in the first place.

And now here he was still walking, still wet, still wondering how this all came to be, and still thinking he should throttle his sister.

Maybe Liz had told TJ and he had blabbed to Lorelai. That would be just like him. Besides he'd rather be angry at TJ than his sister.

Still, he walked.

How hard would it be now to turn up there ahead, he tried to reason with himself then, follow the tracks south awhile then loop back into town, go up the square and over the few blocks to her house? How hard would it be to knock? To apologize? To explain? To get warm in her bed?

Fucking impossible. That was clear.

Because the pity (or whatever) would come with all that. And he'd have to meet, yet again, the beginning of the story he couldn't tell and wouldn't be allowed to stop telling until it was complete.

And all said.

**III.**

"Hello," she'd said. That's all. Not much. And really very simple too. And easy. Once the terror of it had passed that is. And their date (the wine, the refreshing flattery, the flirtation) had been lovely. All that such evenings should be.

And yet she couldn't sleep.

Had gone down and made tea and wondered through the house instead, straightening cushions, rethinking the arrangement of the living room. Settling in the basement finally, every light lit, digging through dusty cartons of china. Listening to the grim rain pounding.

Perhaps she should rotate out the Wedgewood, she considered. They'd been using it for years now. And the Limoges with the delicate green fern border would be lovely for the winter holidays. Not that they were celebrating them really. Not in the old style. The girls would come for a ladies luncheon for three. That's all. But she was thinking of broiled fish as a change from turkey. The Pilgrims had eaten fish too. The streams of North America full of salmon then. She wasn't the historical secretary for the Mayflower Society for naught.

So broiled fish on the Limoges then. That would make a nice change.

_The Limoges they had bought that first summer when everything was ahead of them..._

And the thought of this stopped her cold. Her hand, holding one of fourteen fragile finger bowls, remained suspended in air.

He had wanted her then. Needed her. Could he ever understand now what had been lost between them? The scope of it? No, she decided, he couldn't. He was fine out there, past the water-logged holly, in the pool house. He had his routine. His work. Music.

But inside, within himself, he had withdrawn from them all.

She could see this clearly.

'_....Lorelai will do what she wants, and Rory's not going any where...'_

So supremely matter-of-fact. She could have stomped her foot and slapped him for it.

And then he'd receded, withered even, away from the nerves in his hands and heart that felt and touched and wanted things. He was balled up tight inside and not coming out to get her. And she'd be damned if she'd go in and try to get him out again.

It was his turn.

_And_ he seemed perfectly willing to let them all go, yet strangely ready with that absent smile when they were there. It maddened her, this dichotomy. Either way seemed fine with him as long as supper was at seven, tee time at eight, and the newspaper ironed open and flat before breakfast.

Damnable man.

Prolonging it all now made no sense.

She set the finger bowl back in its nest of tissue then. She'd have the maid bring it all up tomorrow. Pack up the Wedgewood and put it into storage. Bone china needed to be washed and used to remain bright and glossy. Left alone it could dry into fine powder, the gilt completely lost with it. Most people didn't know that.

And maybe in the spring she'd get out the hand painted set from Amsterdam. With the lilies. Lilies were the way to meet spring.

She would move on, she decided for the thousandth time that week.

She switched off the lights then and started up the stairs determined afresh to greet tomorrow with purpose.

**IV.**

_Hello? _What did I _do_? She wondered miserably again. The quiet tears blinked away for now.

She shifted then in the now-tepid bath. She couldn't seem to sit still even here.

_Gah!_ Screw this.

She sighed, got out, and wrapped herself in a robe.

She picked up the bit of black silk she'd planned on wearing that night then (laid out ready on the fresh bed) and heaved it against the wall with all her might. It made a very unsatisfying 'whoosh'.

'_...I owe you nothing!'_

She remembered him yelling that once. At a time when she'd been pretty sure they were friends.

A different moment long ago. Snow then. Rain now. So why think of it?

Because it had been said.

He had been worrying her lately. His moods. Of course he always had his moods. Luke without moods was just like... Well, not Luke. He could get angry over even very little things. But usually she knew it to be bluster. For she knew the flip side that was patient and steadfast and attentive.

So usually the bark-worse-than-the-bite thing was funny.

Lately, not so much.

And when she reflected on these now-sincerely dark moods and rants, her brain had suddenly and shrewdly correlated them all to this certain time of year. He was definitely worse now. Through out the holidays really, but beginning in the fall right after his birthday (so that wasn't it) but before Thanksgiving.

Yep, it was an annual thing all right.

And when she'd bumped into Liz and asked jokingly if this was the way it had always been, the usually sunny woman grew tight and quiet. It was all long ago and in the past, when they were children, she'd said, but was something she'd have to ask Luke about herself.

_Okay..._

But when he had come that weekend warm and ready for her (they still had that cut-short date to make up for) and she had asked him, it had all gone horribly wrong and some very tender nerve, nursed alone and in the dark for far too long, had been fired and there he was yelling, not for her entertainment, but _at_ her.

'_...I'm in. I am all in...'_

He seemed to mean it at the time.

But maybe not. Maybe he didn't know what that meant. Not really.

Maybe she didn't either.

And what were they doing anyway?

It was so much more than fun and sleeping together for her. It was _potential_ now and had become this thing that kept her warm when she was away from him. That kept her happy and hanging out at the diner like a teenager with a crush. Made her smile when she was alone and just thinking about him.

But this other thing, this childhood trauma. His mother, she guessed. It was here between them, and of course she could see quite clearly now that it always had been. Had always been there for him anyway. Had impeded his joy and hung about him. Like Pigpen's cloud. Sent him again and again, grumpy before his time, off to fish alone. Had chased beautiful women away. This handsome, smart, desirable man.

For awhile she'd thought it had been Rachel. Hello, broken heart gone on too long, she reasoned. But now she wasn't so sure. Maybe his heart had been broken long before Rachel. Before Nicole. Before Jess and before his father's illness and death even.

And her tears pricked afresh then as she thought of the scared little boy that he must have been. And what could possibly have happened to his mother that he saw or caused, or simply could not stop?

And what the hell could she do about it?

Better women than she had clearly tried to help and failed. Because once he pulled away, she knew from her own small experience, retrieval was next to impossible and that he did not forgive easily, if at all.

She sighed and wondered again where he'd gone. It was an awful night out and she had called his apartment and the diner. Twice. Each. She peered out through the curtains again, looking up the road where he had stomped off.

Only missing Boo and the ham costume, she thought miserably.

And then, _I am pathetic_, as she turned away from the window to dress and wait it out...

Sorely needing the welcome embrace that were the Wallowing Sweats.

**V.**

They huddled under the leaky umbrella and laughed as they hurried along. He even bravely slipped an arm about her shoulders to squeeze them more tightly to the middle (the driest part, he justified.) But he knew the justification didn't matter, just as he knew that she was no more aware of his arm being there than how her blue eyes blinked away at his reason.

He hesitated briefly, causing her to trip a little and laugh up at him accusingly, "Hey!"

"Sorry," he responded and looked down at her.

Could he... What if... I mean, you never know... _Right?_

No. You do. You do know.

That settled it. He couldn't because she'd only be surprised and say no and it would be awkward magnified to the hundredth degree.

But... what if he did just ask?

Would the world end?

And suddenly he remembered becoming horribly aware of his situation and then of her standing there kindly offering her robe... And just how incredibly grateful he'd been, and later, when painfully (embarrassingly) sober, how surprised by this gesture he was too... And from such a beautiful girl...

Things like that just never happened to him.

"Come on," she pulled urgently at his arm in the here and now.

He could see her building up ahead there....

_Would_ the world end?

Only a fifty yards away now...

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Back on the main floor, she checked the front door lock again and turned to the main staircase. Her chin still up. She climbed the few steps up to the landing and paused a moment beneath the stained glass.

To reassess.

She hated to. It made her feel weak. Richard had clearly moved on. He had made that clear enough. But... what if...

No, it was too ridiculous.

But then again, they should at least discuss the situation. Plan for the future.

Just a few words to finally clear the air... She felt herself detached enough from the situation to talk rationally now. One adult to another.

Of course.

And Lorelai had been right in her way; He should move out as he had clearly moved on. _If_ he had moved on, that is. This living in the pool house had been practical in the beginning but was now rapidly approaching farcical. And unfortunately still the most beguiling topic amongst the crones at the club, dammit.

And with that Emily about-faced, to hell with the time, marched down the stairs and snatched the Burberry out of the coat closet and the coordinating umbrella from the stand too...

But stopped again.

It was the rain. The rain stopped her. Before she'd even stepped a foot outside.

The rain and remembering that night, more than forty years ago. when they had been so young and had made their decisions about one another and the lives they would lead together. And how lucky she felt to have found _him_....

Damn it. She was being ridiculous, she told herself again.

She would just go out there and wake him up. Just as she had planned.

And they would talk. Just as she planned.

There had to be some plans in this life that go the way they are supposed to go. Otherwise there is just no point.

She went to the kitchen then, slipped out into the garden and headed toward the darkened pool house...

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He'd turned at the tracks and was taking the loop toward town.

His anger cooled to moderate seethe.

Still not sorry though.

She should have minded her own business. No good can come of bringing this up. It's not like anything could ever be changed. It had happened and he had lived with the consequences. Not very happily, that was true. But what did you expect? Logically he knew he'd only been a kid. But she had been his mother. And just how are you supposed to sort that out?

_His mother_.

You _don't _sort it out and that's that.

He stopped a moment then, looking about himself. Resting his hands on his hips, catching his breath, getting his bearings in the dark and rain... He hadn't been out this way in years.

And a little memory crept into his brain then. Right out of the blue. Right there by the tracks on Ivers Road. Not a memory of his mother. Not at all. But of Lorelai. Of her coming into the diner one day years and years ago. With Rory of course, who was still a kid. She'd come to bug him and drink coffee and feed her child trans-fatty acids... Couldn't think why he'd remember that right now in the rain on Ivers Road... Nothing special had happened. One of a million such days. It had been fall, he remembered that clearly. Not _the_ day, but thereabouts. He'd been fighting with Taylor about something and suddenly there she was in a bright purple sweater laughing. She and Rory both. Laughing. And there in that moment he had just been so glad for it. Hadn't let that on, of course. His day had still been crappy, but the purple sweater and the laughing.... he'd been glad for them...

If he cut through the depot parking lot now he could get over to her house more directly. Cut twenty or thirty minutes off his route...

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Umbrella closed and standing in front of her door now, his decision was made. Someone who could offer their robe to a naked stranger in the hall would let him down gently. _Right?_ And then, that way, he would know for sure. It would be settled. And then they could just be the friends he knew she intended them to be.

"Rory..." he began.

"Hmmm?" she looked up from digging for her key.

"I wanted to ask you..."

"What?" blinked the blue eyes into his.

He breathed anyway.

"...Nothing. It was... nothing. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Oh, okay. See you tomorrow."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Damn! The door was locked. And her keys were back in the main house.

She knocked.

And knocked again, more loudly.

"Hello! Richard! Richard!" she tried calling.

Nothing.

She walked over to the garage then and peered in through the door's window.

His car was gone.

So much for plans.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The doorbell rang.

She sprang from bed and hurried down the stairs to whip open the door.

"Hello," she tried to search his eyes but he wouldn't lift them.

"Hello," he responded. _Where to start?_

"You're soaking," she told him sympathetically.

He nodded.

"Do you want to come in?"

He took a deep breath, "Yes."

But didn't move.

"Are you _sure _you want to come in?" she checked in concern.

"Yes."

He still wasn't moving.

"Do I need to come out and _push_ you in?" she asked.

He looked up at her, "You might."

She nodded.

"Okay."

**VI.**

And once it was all said, it was perhaps not as awful as he had thought it might be. Terrible of course, because it (what had happened so long ago) had been a terrible thing. No denying that. But easier to say perhaps than he'd feared. But not the relief such things are always painted to be in movies. Definitely not that.

She herself had no experience with real tragedy. No compass to give her a grip on the situation. Only words. Those she always had...

So she told him how she could hear what was heroic in his story too—something that he'd never acknowledge because of the loss. But he suddenly appreciated so much that she _could_ hear that about him, in his words, true or no. And, most importantly, did not seem to love him less for it (for even he could see that this is what it all meant)

In a way, it seemed to maybe make that love _more_. More. For both of them.

For him, it was because of the trust. He looked up at her then and could not doubt that she was _grateful_ for his trust (in telling the story) rather than horrified by the details.

_Well, what had he expected?_

For her, it was being so damn glad to have him back beside her. And however he thought this might change things, it not changing them at all.

So she began to talk then of the _now_. Of things now. And tomorrow too. Now and tomorrow and what they meant.

And he listened quietly to that for awhile and then, eventually, spoke as well.

This is how they started again.


	10. But

5.10 Following _But Not as Cute as Pushkin_. It's December now. Very long. Post-modern.

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**Prologue**

If you take my hand now, I will lift you up.

And then we could float awhile. Or, better yet, fly. Think of what heaven it is to feel weightless in the pool as a child. The warm sun on your face... The freedom that comes with that. This will feel like nothing more. I promise. You could close your eyes, but I advise against it. I really do.

If your eyes are closed you could still smell the pine and the snow in the air as you rise up above into the dark night. But you would not see the lights, which, in my opinion, would be a terrible shame. It's so beautiful to be up there. And you will be safe and warm, but still able to feel the tingle-burn of the cold air straight to the depths of your lungs that is Winter and Connecticut at night.

You will see, if your eyes are open, the twinkling lights of the little town below, or the brighter ones in the city a ways away. You might flip then and float on your back awhile too and see the stars. Lots of people love to do that.

I will not let go of your hand. You can trust me. You have before and we've come through just fine.

So, let's swoop about and watch and be with them all (those below) in their small lives, needful needs, hungry wants, and fearsome fears too. Poor them, I say.

But there are the other moments as well, when it is all so worth it for they who struggle and for we who watch.

That is the best part of this job. _Those_ moments.

Charles Dickens, May God Bless him (she does by the way, daily) wrote serialized stories in the newspaper. A penny a word (but I've told you that before). It behooved him therefore to write lots of words. So he did. He gave us character after character. Rich and poor. Cruel and kind. Or complex patchworks of both, like you and I. Well, you. I, of course, no longer need bother with such things.

That is the reward we will all receive. If we try in life.

I tried. I did. I wrote in a small way. I tried to rise above my affliction. I forbore bitter disappointment. I stood by and watched my father die just so he would know I was near. And when he breathed his last, I lifted my face up hoping, but not yet knowing, that he would see me there smiling and bidding him farewell as he floated away, grateful that his pain was at an end.

I know I loved well and with my full heart.

But that is me and tonight is not about my journey. It is yours. And those we know and love in Connecticut (admit it, you never thought I'd get there). So you and I will swoop about tonight like the wraiths that we are (you have a special one-time guest pass—my present to you). Do not be concerned if we hop quickly from place to place, if we slip in time, or listen even to those who are dead.

You are so brave here and now as I stand before you in your darkened bedroom. Surely I scared you when you startled awake, and I'm sorry for that. And do not worry about your appearance, you are beautiful to me. For you are alive, and trying as we all do to get through this night with grace, and what is more lovely than that?

And remember, I've got you.

Let's go!

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It's a little showy perhaps, but first we go up, up, up... further than you've been before, further than a Luke or a Taylor could certainly imagine, so high that maybe only Dickens himself when alive could have an inkling of it. For it is here where we will meet out first storyteller. Because Dickens would have loved that.... and I'm a terrible suck up.

I'll be quiet now.

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Hey there, glad you could make it.... Mind if I smoke?

Once you're up here, you gotta ask.

It's not like it makes a damn bit of difference. 'Cause everyone here's dead. Pretty funny, huh? They're all dead, but still you gotta ask, all polite-like, to smoke. Premium placed on manners here. Not so much on having a sense of humor though.

Uh... that's just my opinion, by the way. It's not like I'm the gold-star representative of this outfit. No way. No halo here, that's for damn sure... Just because a guy likes to take a few things with him. I mean, _Geez_, what's a few hundred baseball cards and some dueling pistols in the big picture? What do they care? But, _no._.. apparently they _do _care and look down on you too just 'cause you like your things... What's the point of enjoying the life you had I ask you, if you can't enjoy your stuff too...?

Excuse me a minute while I spit.....

That's better.

So no, I'm not the stellar citizen around here, but I have learned the protocols for getting along. The damn manners: You gotta be polite.

Oh, and all that 'shalt not' crap...

What are you gonna do? That's the way The Boss likes it.

Still, I've come to enjoy sitting here watching everything that's going on, and there's nothing better, dead or alive, than a good stogie while you're having a conversation.

You know what I mean?

My brother, he's up here too. With his wife. They don't mix much with the likes of you. Nothing personal, but they're just not quite as earthy as me. Guess they were split up too soon and are using eternity to make up for it. Well, that's them. They still tune in on the big picture screen, of course. But they don't really mix. I told 'em they should've with that greasy grandkid of theirs, but that's another story.

But here and now, I'm watching. And seeing some pretty interesting stuff too.

You know, I appreciate that he (my nephew) gave me my due in death, I really do. I myself, in his place, probably would've pocketed the baseball cards and not stuck 'em in the coffin at all. But he didn't. He did the right thing. Respectful-like. You learn the value of that when you're a war veteran.

So anyways, I started getting a little concerned when he was yelling at Minnie Thompson a few weeks ago. Not for her. I never liked her. Prude. Knees practically soldered together. Nah, I was getting concerned because he was gearing up again for that damn _Dark Day _those loons all call it.

My brother just sighs, shakes his head and calls him a fool.

Me, I call him Cheese-head.

And where does he get off yelling at that brunette hotty-totty about that stupid old boat? She may be a little pigeon-toed, but she's got a helluva an ass on her. Is he really trying to chase away every damn woman within a four hundred mile radius? Pretty soon he'll have to resort to married ones like I did.

Cheese-head, I tell ya. Still wrapped up in it all after more than twenty years. Won't even change the frickin' sign on the store. _Let it go, Lucas! _I yell at him. I mean, I literally stand there in the old hardware store and yell at him while he works. But does he hear me? No, he does not. Just tells that pencil-neck kid (easy Halloween candy mark, by the way) to shut the door because he thinks there's a draft. A draft! That's what he thinks I am now. A draft.

I tried throwing some small tools at him from one of the bins on the shelf there (couldn't find a rock), just to get his attention, but they go right through my hand now of course due to my current non-corporeal status.

So, for years I've been standing there yelling at him and trying to throw tools at him, and still he just moped over his dad and wouldn't make a move on the leggy brunette.

Life, folks, is wasted on the living.

You tell them Louie says so.

My brother and his wife just shake their heads and sigh and tell me to let it be. Everything has it's season, and everyone too... blah, blah, blah. But I feel I still have some redeeming to do. So I don't leave it.

I mean he did finally make the move on the brunette, so anything could happen now. Right?

So, I'm having my stogie, blowing smoke, spitting—same old, same old... And watching...

Might have to try throwing some tools too before it's all over.

So, we're gonna start in the middle of the story tonight, or thereabouts, because that's what I want to do. You can just buzz off to another story if you don't like it. I'm startin' here because I get to watch that brunette walking down the street in some of them jeans, and no man, dead or alive, is gonna skip over that.

Wowza.

So, that's where I'm startin'...

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She felt the cramp in her stomach again, but kept walking anyway.

_No, no, no, no!... this is not happening. I am fine! I cannot—I will not be sick! I'll make it to the diner, have the magic coffee and be healed!_

All this she told herself—the last bit with her inner hysterically funny evangelist's voice as she hurried along (as well as she could). She pretty much had herself convinced too by the time she rang through the door and had sat at the counter to remove her gloves.

"Go home," she heard.

"Luke, I'm fine," she told him, and smiled too, to prove it.

"You are not fine," he corrected as he leaned over the counter, "You're pale, probably feverish, and have dark circles under your eyes. And your hair is kinda flat."

"Wow. Is this how the Prince got Grace?"

"You're sick," he ignored her, "Go home. Wallow in your denial there so you don't contaminate the rest of us."

"You know, when you talk like that it's just Cary Grant all over again."

"Lorelai..."

"Coffee, please."

"That is not what you need right now."

"Dirty! And, it is. _It is _what I need: Coffee!"

"I am not giving you coffee. I'll give you some chamomile tea for your stomach in a to-go cup. After which, you will go home and go to bed."

"_Tea? _Absolutely not! Coffee is the magic cure."

"So you admit you're sick then?" he said with no small satisfaction.

"I concede that if you do not give me the Magic Coffee right now... The veritable Lorenzo's Oil from the Beatific Bean, it's gonna get ugly in here. Fast. I'm talking Falwell and Sharpton on Russert, buddy."

"Fever's making you delusional."

"Fork it over, coffee man."

He looked at her a moment, eyed the now diminished crowd in the diner, and turned to pour a to-go cup of coffee before coming around the counter to take her arm.

"Here," he said handing her the cup, "I'm taking you home."

"No," she shook her head, "I am going to the Inn."

He grabbed his coat off the rack then, "Ceasar, I'm going out for awhile!" he called, and led her outside, as she pulled on her gloves and drank deeply of the coffee.

"Lorelai, you cannot go to the Inn. You are sick."

"But Luke, it's...—"

"...Christmas eve. I know. I understand. But apparently that stomach virus you've got doesn't recognize holidays."

They crossed the street in this way.

"But..."

"No buts. You've got to go home to bed. Look at it this way, it gets you out of going to your parents' tonight."

"But I _like_ going for Christmas. And this is my first Christmas with you."

"You've seen me on Christmas before."

"Yes, I know. That's true. And charming as you were..."

"It's all commercial hype, Lorelai..."

"I repeat, Charlie Brown, charming as you were, we were not an _us_ then."

"How will Christmas be any different now that we're an _us_?"

She smiled at him knowingly as they walked past Miss Patty's, "Because we'll be together."

Luke shifted uncomfortably, "About that..."

"Oh Luke... _what?"_

"Well..."

"Oh my God, wait...!" she cried suddenly, paling at the cramping in her stomach...

"W-what? Oh, Lorelai...!"

And at that he knelt down next to her, and swiped her hair quickly out of her face as she un-breakfasted into bushes next to the dumpster.

She sat back on her knees then, eyes closed and mortified, gloved hand to her lips, trying to will the nausea and dizziness away with all her might.

Luke looked at her in real concern then, and pulled off his own glove to feel her face.

"Lorelai, you're burning up..."

She turned to look at him then, eyes moist, deeply embarrassed, "Oh Luke, I'm so sorry..."

"There's nothing to be sorry about," he told her gently and rubbed her shoulder softly, "We've got to get you home."

"Lorelai! Are you all right?" demanded Miss Patty at their side now.

"Patty, she's really sick. Can you sit with her while I go get my truck to drive her home?"

"Oh sure. Let's bring her inside. Here, honey, let me help you up..."

Luke and Patty got Lorelai into the studio and upon a chair then (Lorelai protesting the entire way, 'I'm fine... I _can_ walk...')

Once Luke had gone, Patty turned to Lorelai, "Would you like some water, sweetie?"

Lorelai smiled weakly up at her, "That would be great, Patty."

The water did taste good. And boy-oh-boy she did feel crappy, dammit.

"Lorelai," began Patty knowingly as she took the glass from her, "There isn't some little announcement you have impending, is there dear?"

"Huh?" asked Lorelai wearily as she leaned her face into her hand and rested her elbow on the table.

"You and Luke, I mean. It isn't unreasonable to assume... what with you booting into my chrysanthemum bushes and all..."

Lorelai looked up, "Oh no, Patty! No, no, no! It's the flu, I promise. Rory had it last week. My ovaries are in a vault made of titanium, I assure you. I mean, fool me once... _Right?_" she tried to laugh weakly.

"Okay dear, if you say so."

"I do. I do say so."

"Fine dear. Whatever you say."

"Patty..."

"Are you ready?" asked Luke from the door then, "I've got the truck outside."

"Absolutely! Thanks Patty. Merry Christmas!" she smiled and headed gratefully out to the truck.

"Merry Christmas!" called Patty after them.

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My nephew isn't really a bad sort. A Cheese-head yes, but not bad.

(They're heavy on stressing that good and bad difference up here, so I thought I'd make that clear.)

But he does _have it bad _for the brunette. That's plain. And she for him too. I told you I keep an eye on things... And, boy-howdy, she's got some sexy black lacy stuff to wear too!

But you didn't hear that from me.

And now she's sick, and yuking her guts out, which is pretty disgusting to watch but necessary for us to know in the scheme of things now. And before you go all female and soap opera on me like that battleaxe Patty, she ain't pregnant. She's sick. End of story.

When you're up here you're privy to the inside dope like that.

What kind of cliche outfit do you think The Boss is running here, anyway?

So, Lucas gets her to her house and upstairs and changed (I looked away) and into bed, and then she, being the pitbull that she is, starts in all suspicious on him about being so shifty about spending Christmas with her...

This oughta be good....

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"Luke, I understand that you want to be open for breakfast and lunch tomorrow. Some people only have Luke's for Christmas. I applaud that. I _understand_ that. I do. I just don't get why you won't come over right after you close so we can have the rest of the day together..."

Luke shifted uncomfortably, unwilling to admit the truth.

"Is it TJ and Liz?" she tried to reason.

"No, they're going into the city to be with Jess."

"Okay..." she waited.

"I just don't want to intrude on your time with Rory," he tried.

"Honey, you wouldn't be. She wants you here too. And she'll go see Lane in the afternoon any way... But, I've told you that already..."

"Well then, you should rest..."

"Luke..." her eyes misted up, "It's _Christmas_ tomorrow. Don't you want to be with me? I mean I thought that we... that you and I..."

"Look," he blurted more harshly than he intended, "I've got some business... an errand to take care of, and tomorrow afternoon's the only time I can get it done!"

"You have an errand?"

"Yes."

"_An errand _on Christmas Day?"

"Yes."

"Okay," she paused to breathe, "I see."

She eyed him coldly then from her bed as he stood before her looking anywhere but at her. She was beyond puzzled. She was pissed.

"Fine, Luke. Take care of your errand," she finally said quietly. "I'm going to call Rory now, and then get some sleep, so if you'll just pull that curtain closed before you leave, I'd appreciate it."

"Lorelai..." he sighed, truly miserable now (_frickin' holiday!_) "Look, I'll send Ceasar over with some food for you later and then I'll see you tomorrow evening."

She only looked away at that so he pulled the curtain closed then, casting the bedroom in an odd darkness in the mid-morning.

"No need," she finally told him, "I'd probably just send all the food back, and not in a recognizable form."

"Lorelai, don't be that way... please. Maybe you'll feel better later and want something. I'll send _brownies_," he wheedled.

She looked up at him. "_'Bye _Luke."

"I will see you tomorrow evening then," he finished lamely.

But when nothing came of that either, he headed to the door.

"Ouch!" he yelped in it's archway.

"_What_?" she demanded in irritation.

"Big bolt just fell on my head," he rubbed his crown ruefully while looking at the offending article on the floor.

He looked back at her in the bed, "Did you just _throw_ a bolt at me?"

"Wish I had," she grumped under her breath and crossed her arms over her chest.

He looked up and examined the door jamb ledge above him.

"How the hell did that thing get up there to fall on me?"

"Go home, Luke," Lorelai told him irritably and scrunched down into her pillows, "And do not send food!" she yelled after him for good measure.

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Hahaha! I did it! Just goes to show you, where there's a will, there's a way!

Look at him, the flipping Cheesehead! Should just tell her the truth, that'd be better than this!... Now she's hurt _and_ sick and on Christmas too. I wonder if I could pull that rug out from under him by the front door there too...

_Louie, stop it!_

What? I didn't hurt the guy.

You can't interfere that way.

They do it in the movies all the time!

That may be, but this is not the movies. And if you keep Luke here at Lorelai's, it spoils the rest of the story, and I have made special arrangements for my friends to be here tonight, so knock it off!

But...

I mean it, Louie. No more throwing things at people. End of story!

Fine, fine... Next time it won't just be a bolt I heave at him, I can tell you that right now....

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Sorry about that. But let us take this lesson from the fact of Louie: Those who are gone from among us, never truly depart. I'm sure you've sensed that before. Most do. Some even see things now and then as you will tonight. It is the best bit of comfort allowed the living in their grief over loss. Well, that and the children. It is sadly not enough for many but the best that can be done, for ultimately they must all learn to live again...

_Excuse me! _But I beg your pardon!

Yes, what can I do for you?

I have been waiting an inordinate amount of time. It seems long past time for _my_ entrance.

Oh, I'm sorry but you must wait a bit longer, Mrs. Gilmore.

I find that very inconvenient. And rude. In life, I was never kept waiting.

Well, you know that we are all equals here, Mrs. Gilmore.

I do not have a lifetime to stand about trying to accommodate your schedule, young woman!

_Excuse me_, _Trix_, but you have eternity.

Do not get uppity with me!

Sorry. Mrs. Gilmore, please...

And I fail to see why that uncouth, spitting, _peasant_ of a man should get to go first when clearly my role in this is far more important...

Because that is the way it is. Besides, for your part to have the greatest dramatic impact, we must wait until the sun goes down and the clock strikes twelve. _It being so important and all_.

Well, as you put it _that_ way and if you really feel it is for the best...

I do. So, please again Mrs. Gilmore, be so kind as to wait until midnight.

Very well. I certainly do not want to be associated with low-brow bolt-dropping tricks.

No, you do not.

Silvery mists, perhaps. Moonlight certainly. And bells. _Real_ bells, with deep tolling. No cheap clanking about.

Tolling not clanking. Got it. Much classier.

It is not an issue of class, young woman.

Sorry.

It is only what is appropriate.

Of course.

All right, I will wait. But, mind you, I will not wait one minute past midnight!

Well, that is gracious indeed, Mrs. Gilmore.

And I'm not waiting over there with that Louie. He smells bad.

I understand perfectly.

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My apologies again.

Here, let's join hands, shall we?

Let us descend now from this lofty place . We have time before the Midnight Hour and because we are what we are, we can keep an eye on Lorelai as she sniffs into the phone about Luke to Rory at Emily and Richard's party...

And watch Luke himself as he dejectedly mops the diner...

And over there, look! Kirk and Lulu sit cuddling in the gazebo watching the snow before going for a romantic Christmas dinner at Luke's. Wait until she sees what he got her for a gift! (I hope her inoculations are up to date)...

And yes, I know it was just breakfast a moment ago by your standards, and that Luke is mopping closed the diner Lulu and Kirk haven't gone to yet, but remember what I told you about time tonight?

Oh and, by the way, you don't get airsick, do you?

Good.

Over there to the south, Babbette and Morey are at a hot jazz club in New York. It is just swinging with the Christmas spirit! And look, they've brought Patty with them too. That's nice...

And here Lane sits with her mother at services. Let's watch for a moment as they go afterwards to visit the elderly and shut-ins in town. Mrs. Kim gives each a xeroxed copy of various large-  
fonted bible verses (she's hi-lighted the important parts) and when her back is turned, Lane slips them one of the small baggies of treats (green Oreos, ribbon candies, nuts, soyfudge, and the roll of Tums necessary after soyfudge) she and Rory put together earlier in the week (they've done this every year for as long as they can remember).

They think Mrs. Kim doesn't know, but I am here to tell you that she has always known that the girls do this, and has consciously created reasons to turn away at the exact right moments so that the girls might still enjoy their secret.

Mrs. Kim is not who you think she is at all.

Now, I feel we must take a moment to honor Charles Dickens here.

He wrote with a social agenda, you know. And was publicly blasted in his life for encouraging the poor to marry. He well-understood the privations many have in this life, and wrote not only for entertainment, artistic calling, and a living, but for illumination on social welfare as well.

As you can imagine his was that rare ear in life that heard the whisperings of angels.

So, in this vein, I ask you to recall this: _God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son._

Now, I do not preach to you. I promise. That isn't my job. I mean, what the hell do I know?

Nothing, that's what.

Whether you believe that the savior has been here once, or that we are still awaiting him (or her) is not my business. Whether the above-statement is truth in fact, or truth in metaphor is not my concern now either. You have to wait until you have full resident status here to learn the juicy stuff (think of it as the Ultimate Cosmic Sweeps Week).

It is the _act, _that is important for our purposes tonight, Friends, and why I draw you selfishly away from your families and warm beds, not to mention The WB.

To be plain: _The giving, Friends... It is the giving_.

So, I give you this now: This story. And, this moment as well to pause and reflect upon those whom you've lost, perhaps long before it seemed quite right that they should go. To tell you how sorry I am that you have lost them. And to show you how even now, after all these years, my own eyes well up as I think of my grandmother and the little pink dresses she made for my Barbie.

So, this is a night for gifts.

Oh! and friends please, think a little too, especially at this time of year, on the one hundred and seventy million children in our world who are malnourished (many of whom live very close to you). Think of them, friends. Think of them too.

It is the giving.

And back here in Connecticut as we fly warm and cozy and free through the snowy night, think also of Taylor Doose (and his ilk) and how there is no Nephew Fred asking him to dinner this night, though there be many nephews. Think of him alone eating day-old sushi and plotting ways to improve profits. Think of him with charity in your hearts.

At last, as we fly Mary Poppins-like past the steeple, hear the deep tolling coming from no clock known to the human ear. It is mournful and deep as it strikes the Christmas Midnight Hour and knocks coldly at our consciences in our sleep: Did we do all that we could? Were we selfish? Greedy? Did we use words that cut and hurt? Did we turn our backs though the knowledge of hunger and bigotry trumpeted across our television screens daily? Were we apathetic, you and I?

Grim as that may be, Christmas cannot be without such questions, whatever your faith.

But I have promised you your story and as I don't want you flipping channels on me, you will have it.

_Here now..._

We are back at Lorelai's.. In her darkened living room. I have just switched on the tree lights in the corner...

The loud tolling continues, the deeply haunting clamor of the Christmas midnight bell droning on and on, shaking the windows in their frames.

Now wait just a moment.... There! There, _look! _See the wispy bits of silvery fog gather and spin about? Oh, this is drama!

_The boom of the tolling bell, the gathering mist_....

She stirred and woke then in her darkened room. Her stomach was not roiling as it had been before but her mouth tasted like, _Oh God_, _socks_? Then: _What was that? _Had she just heard something? She blinked and squeezed her eyes, and dug at the bit of sand in the corners as she slowly got out of bed....

Something... _Someone? _

_And was she hearing bells?_

Had Rory changed her mind about sleeping at Emily's and come home? And why was she ringing bells?

She flipped the hall light switch with no result. Damn, how could both bulbs be out? Oh, well. She padded stiffly down the stairs to the landing then stopped and blinked, her bladder suddenly feeling pressured, her heart beating faster just like... just like an elevator out from under you...!

"G-_Gran?_"she gulped.

"Hello, Lorelai. I see your hair has not much improved since last I saw you."

"G-Gran?!" She repeated and gaped at her grandmother in her living room below, swimming in a silvery mist.

"Yes, dear. Don't stutter. It's unattractive."

"You're dead."

"And certainly do not be rude, young lady!"

"Sorry."

"I have passed beyond the veil which separates the living from knowing all, that is true, but I have come tonight, most beautifully in a silver mist and with ominous bell tolling as well, to see you."

Lorelai sat down hard on the stair beneath her, lest she fall over, and placed her face into her hands.

"I must be sicker than I thought."

"You should not have eaten that cheese this morning."

She looked up, "I cut off the green part."

"Nevertheless."

"Am... _am I dreaming_?"

"You may perhaps think so tomorrow, but here and now you are not."

"Dad was so sad when you d--.. passed beyond the veil."

"Of course he was. Only right that he should be."

"A-Are you going to show me what Stars' Hollow would have been without me?"

"Good heavens, no!"

"Are you going to scare me into repenting my sins and giving my money to little lame boys?"

"I sincerely doubt it."

"Oh! Are you going to tell me that my father was murdered by my mother's new husband?"

"I will not even dignify that."

"Oh. Okay."

"You sound disappointed."

"What? _No!_"

"Yes you are, you are disappointed... Here I've come all this way and gone to all the trouble to make a grand entrance from _The Beyond_...!"

"It was beautiful, Gran! Really it was. It's just in movies, the ghost always comes to do that kind of stuff."

"This is not a movie, Lorelai! As if I'd be caught within ten feet of _an actor_, living or dead!"

"No, it isn't. It isn't a movie. You're right. My mistake. I've just never encountered this sort of thing before. I'm a little rattled. Could we start over, please?"

"I don't know if I want to now."

"_Please_?"

"Very well."

"So, you've come to see me?"

"Yes."

"Any particular reason?"

"Well, naturally."

"Are you going to _tell_ me the reason?"

"You know, you were a very spirited little girl."

"I haven't heard it put quite that way before."

"I remember Richard writing to tell me all the clever places you found to hide in the house. He was so proud! And it just drove your mother to distraction, which made _me_ so proud!"

"Oh! Is this when you show me my childhood?"

"No."

"Just as well. Didn't enjoy it so much the first time round."

"Tonight is not about you, Lorelai."

"It isn't?"

"No."

"Why did you wake me up then? Oh! Is it about Rory?"

"You must look beyond Rory and yourself here, Lorelai dear."

"But... I don't understand."

"I know you don't. That is why I am here."

"Okay..."

"My dear, you will have three visitors tonight... You should perhaps consider tidying up."

"Hah! I knew it! Past, Present and Future, right?"

"No. Do not interrupt me again. It is irritating."

"Sorry."

"Now, I want you to go back to bed and wait for them like a good girl."

"But...!"

"Now, Lorelai! And make a hair appointment Monday morning for heaven's sake!"

And suddenly the hall lights above her, dead only a moment ago, clicked on. Lorelai swivelled her neck up to look, but when her gaze returned to the living room below her, it was empty.

Gran and her mist were gone.

"Gran?" she tried, looking about.

Nothing. No Gran. No bells. No silvery mist.

"Gran!" she called again more loudly.

She went tentatively to the bottom of the staircase then, and after nervously checking every lock and closet, knew that she was truly alone.

"Maybe I _shouldn't_ have eaten that cheese," she thought as she finally climbed the stairs back to bed.

_A dream_, she thought and palmed her forehead to test for fever.

_Hope so anyway_.

She glanced quickly over her shoulder and back into the still-empty living room below before bolting down the hall into her bedroom and diving into bed.

Definitely a dream.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Now, it could be said that like Elliot's everyman Proofrock, Lorelai Victoria Gilmore measured her unremarkable life in Coffee-spoons. She is no Scrooge after all. She is not miserly nor mean. She is merely a taller, thinner, wordier one of us. With a much better wardrobe.

And we all know that in these magical-movie ghostly sorts of stories, there is always a lesson to be learned, repentance sought and gained, and a happy ending too (well, not in Hamlet, but Shakespeare could be an awful snot.). Tonight's tale is no different than any of these. Clumsier, yes. Less delicate, certainly. Anvil-esque, for sure.

And why, you may well ask, do we do this to a perfectly ordinary woman who does no real harm in the world? Our heroine? Our object of fantasy? Why bother her thus when we could be watching her in bed with Luke? Or, dispensing witty wisdom to Rory? Or, verbally fencing with Emily?

Because _I_ call her forth tonight to stand and be counted for you and I...

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

_Mmmm.... popcorn_, she smiled through her sleep. Popcorn smells good. _Want_ some popcorn...

_Beep, Beep, Beep!_

_Oooo! _Popcorn's finished....

But... she was in bed! Where was her popcorn? And why was she in bed?

Oh, right: Home sick. Stupid Luke fight. Bad cheese dreams...

But someone was definitely making microwave popcorn downstairs. No doubt about it. She glanced at her clock. It was only one. Had Rory come home for real this time? Had Luke returned contrite?

She got up and walked into the hall, flipped on the lights (working this time–_Stupid_ _Dream!_) And went down to the kitchen...

And saw _Lulu_ standing in front of her microwave opening a steaming bag of popcorn.

"Oh, Lorelai! Glad you're up! I've got the popcorn all ready."

The young woman stood happily before her in a red and white full-length Lanz flannel nightgown. Each button done right up to the lace that circled just below her angelic chin.

"_Lulu? _H-how did you get in here?" asked Lorelai in surprise and glanced at the backdoor—the deadbolt was still turned.

"Oh, that wasn't a problem, don't worry," smiled the younger woman sweetly.

And then, "Come on, I've got us all set up in the living room!"

And with that she dumped the popcorn into a waiting bowl, picked it up, and sailed past a dumbfounded Lorelai and into the living room.

By the time she could regain the power of movement, Lorelai had turned and followed.

There Lulu sat on her couch, the quilt already tucked around her, the bowl of popcorn in her lap. Looking as comfy as a kitten.

She smiled again, "Come sit with me, Lorelai," she patted the place next to her. "I'll share the quilt."

"Lulu, w-why are you here?" Lorelai finally asked.

"Oh, don't be silly! You know why I'm here!" giggled Lulu as she dug her hand into the popcorn bowl.

"No, I don't."

"Didn't your grandmother tell you I was coming?... _Lorelai? _Lorelai, are you all right? You look

pale. Come sit down! Here, I'll help you... There you go... Oh, poor thing! I've given you a shock, haven't I? And here you're sick and all....I'm so sorry. Let's put the quilt around you... There. We'll share and be cozy and warm together. Don't be afraid, Lorelai. You know me."

"B-But..."

"Shhh, I know, Lorelai. I know. _There, there_," comforted Lulu.

"Have some popcorn, Sweetie, it'll make you feel better," she told her too, and popped a kernel into Lorelai's gaping mouth.

And instantly, she did feel better! The nausea and cramping melting away.

"I don't feel sick any more," munched Lorelai in some amazement.

Lulu nodded merrily and proffered the bowl, "Have some more."

Lorelai didn't need to be asked twice.

"Lulu," she finally asked after a couple handfuls, "You aren't _dead_, are you?"

Lulu laughed out loud at that, "Nope! Just lending a hand."

"B-But, don't you have to be... dead... to do this sort of thing?"

"That is a popularly held misconception."

"Oh," said Lorelai nodding, pretending to understand what she did not.

"Anyone can help out, Lorelai," added Lulu after a moment.

"I see. But..."

"Hey! Let's watch _The Movie _now!"

"_The_ _Movie_?"

"Yep!" and with that Lulu leaned forward, grabbed the remote off the coffee table and clicked it on.

"You're gonna love this!"

They watched the FBI warning flash on the screen then.

"Lulu, there isn't anything illegal in this popcorn, is there?"

"Oh Lorelai, you are so funny!"...

They sat in silence for a moment as they awaited the credits. It was all strangely _unstrange_ to Lorelai as she continued to eat the popcorn. Felt like something she did everyday. Hanging out with Lulu on her couch in the middle of the night... She stole a sideways glance at her then and thought what a pretty and sweet girl she was, and how lucky Kirk of all people had been to find her. She even went so far as to shake her head a little in wonder over it: Lulu and _Kirk_?

"Watch the screen, Lorelai," whispered Lulu.

Lorelai felt an odd pang of conscience at her unkind Kirk-thoughts and quickly complied.

_Kirk's Movie _the screen now read.

"But, I've seen Kirk's movie," she turned again to Lulu in protest.

"Shhh," hushed her companion. "You've seen _A Film by Kirk_. This is something else."

Lorelai turned back to watch her tv then and was amazed to see that in her momentary distraction, the screen had increased by a hundred-fold! It seemed now to fill her wall and boasted new and improved realism-enhancing accessories like Surround-sound and Smella-vision! Lulu slipped something into her hand then, and when she looked down she saw cardboard sunglasses with lenses of different colors. She understood at once that she was to put them on.

She looked back up at her enormous home-theater screen now, glasses resting on her nose, and gasped at what she saw. (Well, not the _what_, because it was only Stars' Hollow. More like the _how_) So realistic was the view, that she felt at once as if she were _in_ the scene before her...

_Like a fly on the wall_ was her last fully aware thought....

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

_It was cold_. Too cold for her liking. She had found in recent years that the closer she got to retirement, the harder the Connecticut winters seemed to get. She flipped up the collar on her old tweed coat then and hunkered her shoulders inward a little as she switched her carry bag to the other hand. She sighed, yet again, over the dilemma that had kept her awake all last night.

It never got easier, these situations. And were by no means new. But that didn't make them any easier. They were never easy. But one had to make the report to the authorities, the police, the social workers. That was the law. And Adele Cassinni was nothing if not an honest woman.

She loved to chat and gossip, she would be the first to admit. But right was right, even when it meant that the father had to be removed from the home. The wife wasn't going to be happy, that was certain, whatever the old man had done. Twelve kids, for land's sake. Twelve hungry mouths to feed. And only three or four of them old enough to have jobs. And heaven only knew if jobs could be found for any of them in a town as small as Stars' Hollow. What with the recession on and all.

She continued down the street lost in thought this way. Two more years and she could retire. Two more years. She'd miss the kids, no doubt about that. She loved the kids— _her kids_, she liked to think of them. And their parents too—many of whom had been _her kids _themselves at one time.

But it wasn't getting easier. What with the ridiculousness of standardized testing, the overcrowding, the budget cut to the bone, and so many parents having to work such long hours that there wasn't nearly enough supervision in the homes.

And her eyesight no longer what it was.

It depressed her.

Well, what was done, was done. The father needed taking out of that house despite the fact that he was the bread winner. Not much of one, to be sure, but all they had. And here Christmas only two weeks away. But now, of course, she'd do what she could to keep the children and mother together. Which wasn't much. Frankly, she was out of ideas. The church fund for helping families in need wasn't what it used to be, the congregation so small now. And the school was making their pennies squeak.

She herself had been going to Staples for years now to buy paper for her students. Spent over a thousand dollars in classroom supplies alone last year. And was almost halfway to that now in only December. She couldn't afford any more. Not with retirement coming up.

Well, nevermind that now. _Focus, Adele_. Jobs. If she could find some after school jobs for a couple of the kids, that would be a start.

She paused at the corner and looked up then at... Luke's! Maybe Luke could take one of the kids on as a busboy or something!. He'd always been a good boy, that Lucas Danes. A bit wild after his mother died, but that was to be expected. He'd settled right into helping his father quick enough. Silent and taciturn, sure, and quick-tempered too, just like Louie. But good hearted.

She glanced down at her watch. She still had twenty-five minutes before her first class. She would go in, have a coffee, and talk to Luke about a job for one of the Gleason kids.

She stepped through the ringing door and took in the busy crowd as she shrugged out of her coat. There wasn't an open table in sight.

"Adele!" she heard then. "Over here!"

She looked to the counter to see Patty waving her over.

"I'm leaving, honey, take my seat," her friend offered.

She smiled her gratitude and slid into place as soon as Patty had vacated. Ceasar poured her coffee then and she took a grateful sip as she waited for Luke to be free enough to talk.

He certainly could use help, she noticed in satisfaction. The walls were lined with people trying to read newspapers as they waited for available seating. Thank God for Patty. Thank God too for being an old lady who won't get yelled at when she takes an offered seat. There had to be some perks to this getting old business otherwise, as near as she could tell, it was for the birds.

Luke moved down behind the other end of the counter now so she tried to catch his eye.

"Luke..." she began, but was immediately cut off.

"_But Luke_!" she heard a plaintive whine.

She looked over then to see Lorelai Gilmore standing opposite, and her heart sank. She knew that getting Luke's attention now could well be impossible. Everyone knew that. Everyone also knew that it was only a matter of time for those two, which didn't bode well for the town once they broke up. Which they surely would do. Always messy, these town romances— _What was that candy maker's name?_ Fay. Fay Wellington. She hoped then that Luke didn't turn out to be the bastard that Art Bush had.

_Lorelai Gilmore_, she sighed. The pretty Inn manager had only moved into town from The Inn itself a year ago, but had no qualms at all about cutting in front of anyone to get what she wanted. And Luke, one eye always cocked, like antenna, never let himself miss an opportunity to flirt with her, or catch a view of her curvy rear end.

Adele rolled her eyes then as the game as old as time began between them.

"Come on, Luke! I really need the coffee!"

"So what else is new?"

"Seriously, I do."

"Lorelai, there are about five thousand people ahead of you."

_Then why are you still standing there! _thoughtAdele with a groan.

"But, my water heater broke yesterday, I'm out of coffee at home, _and_ I had to send poor Rory to Babbette's to thaw out."

"What's wrong with your water heater?"

_Here we go_. Adele felt the level of irritation in the diner rise palpably. _If these two ever do get together, the town will starve._

"It doesn't work," said Lorelai with a pout.

_Fancy that._

"What did you do to it?" asked Luke, pretending to scold.

"I resent that implication! I have done absolutely nothing to Ted!"

"Ted?"

_Ted?_

"I'm going to call the plumber for him as soon as I get to The Inn, but first, in order to make it there, without dying of hypothermia; _I need coffee!_"

Luke turned then to fill her a to-go cup.

"I could come look at it for you," he offered shyly.

"Really?" she beamed.

Adele thought a smile like that could light up a Christmas tree pretty darn well. What it was doing to Luke was also clear.

"Sure, I'll come by tonight. No point in paying a plumber. It's probably just the thermostat."

_Damn. _Class in ten minutes.

"Well, _Mr. Danes_, you are probably the handsomest man I've ever seen! And so _talented! _You can cook _and_ do the plumbing?! Boy, some lady will be lucky to get you! If you can also do impressions, I may have to snap you up _myself_..."

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbled and turned away.

Adele sighed seeing how happy these silly words made this very lonely man. She pulled a dollar out of her wallet then, set it on the counter, relinquished her seat to Mr. Perkins, and headed to the coatrack.

Once outside and on her way again to the high school, she considered her other options. Perhaps Doose's. She'd never cared for Taylor, but he did hire kids now and then. Of course he didn't pay well, but it would be something. She'd stop by after school on her way to the hospital to talk to him.

And then she felt the old pain rise up in her heart. The pain of wanting to do so much yet only being able to do very little.

_Poor little Kathy Gleason_. Imagine a grown man kicking a little girl so hard as to leave a perfectly identifiable foot print, treads and all, in purple and yellow bruises on her rib cage! What could possibly make anyone do that to a child?

She blinked then and stopped a moment to pull a kleenex from her pocket to dab her eyes.

She'd stop at the library tomorrow too, right after she spoke to Taylor. That's what she'd do. Get Kathy a book to keep her mind off things... _Okay Adele_, she gave herself a shake and hurried along again. Put out one fire at a time. Freshman Comp first.

She crossed the road then toward the high school but just before turning, caught sight of Lorelai Gilmore striding out of the diner sporting a Cheshire grin and with a to-go cup in hand, and wearing what was very probably a thousand dollar coat.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

"So, this film was a drama then?" said Lorelai quietly, her lips drawn tight.

The screen before them was dark now.

"Yes."

Lorelai pulled off the glasses and turned to look at the young woman next to her on the couch. And, for the first time saw beyond the pretty sweetness that always rang from Lulu clear as a bell, saw beyond it to a sort of, well, _elderly_ look in her eyes. A tired look. A knowing look. And a look that was clearly seeing Lorelai in a way apart from most.

Why had she never noticed this about Lulu before? This way she had of looking at you.

"It was Kirk's sister?"

"Yes."

"Is she all right now?"

"She's going to be a kindergarten teacher. Kirk's been saving for her tuition for years. He pretty much had her set to go next semester but then his mother's car finally gave out, so he's had to start again."

Lorelai paused, feeling cold and hollow within.

"Lulu," she asked, squeezing her eyes closed in a feeble attempt to keep them dry, "How could I have known?"

"You couldn't have."

"But, then _why._.."

"Not then, anyway."

Lorelai nodded.

"Lulu... Would it have made any difference if I had known?"

"Of course. Knowledge always makes a difference," smiled Lulu sweetly, "Oh! I should tell Kirk to put that on one of his t-shirts!"

"Lulu... please..."

"You didn't know, Lorelai. _You didn't_. Do you see?"

Lorelai sighed and leaned her head against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes again.

Not really. She didn't see. Not really.

"Poor Kirk," she said instead.

"Poor Kathy," said Lulu.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

No, no, no, no.... _No!_

No more.

But, she was not an unintelligent woman.

And though she'd been asleep again just moments ago, she knew she had to get up and go out into the hall again. She knew also that then she must switch on the lights that might or might not work, and discover what freakin' and newly painful realm of personal reflection she must next enter.

Well, crap to that. Frankly, she'd rather stay in bed.

And if she, admittedly shallowly, preferred her beauty rest to the examination of her character, well, so what! It was her business. She didn't want to talk to Lulu (or whomever) again.

But a little voice in her head (I'll admit to you right now that it is mine!) told her it was _not_ just her business. Rather, the business of us all. Simply because _it is._ What Lorelai Gilmore experiences on this night of all nights _is_ everyone's business. If people only understood that, things would be so much better.

Trouble was (for her), she couldn't go back to sleep.

Because of the noise.

For fifteen minutes she had remained stubbornly sitting up in bed, arms crossed, trying to wait it out. With little luck.

She would very much have liked to believe that the droning of the hair dryer emanating from her bathroom down the hall for the past quarter hour was Rory. Rory, who had come home at two o'clock in the morning on Christmas eve (no, Christmas _day_ now), and had then proceeded directly upstairs to wash then dry her hair in her mother's bathroom.

The fact that Rory had her own perfectly usable bathroom with its own hair dryer right next to her bedroom was irrelevant, and snort-worthy at this point.

_Dammit!_

She got up.

After quietly opening her bedroom door, she peeked into the dark hall. The bathroom door at the head of the stairs was open, its light on. Still, the hair dryer wailed.

_Double-dog dammit!_

She sighed then. Well, she'd just get it over with. So she walked directly down the hall then and turned to look into the bathroom...

"Oh, hello. Give me a minute, will you? I got rumaki on my new cashmere. A Pringle. Just bought it in London last week. I've sponged with cold water and now I'm drying on 'cool'."

And he was.

Jason Stiles was standing in her bathroom holding her hair dryer up to his midsection, and watching closely as the spot on his black and gray argyle slowly disappeared.

He looked up at her then and smiled.

"Surprised to see me?"

She sighed in irritation, crossed her arms over her chest, and leaned against the doorframe.

"Let's see," she replied, "So far today I've had a stupid fight with Luke, publicly vomited, talked to my dead grandmother who _talked back_ by the way, _and_ had a home invasion by the world's cutest living pixie."

"So, _not_ surprised then?"

"What are you doing here, Jason?"

"Believe it or not, helping."

She only stared at that.

He had the grace to look a little sheepish.

"Well, trying to rack up a few points in the old Cosmic 'Pro' Column too, if you must know. You will be amazed when I tell you that I have not led the purest of lives."

"Do tell."

"Oh, it's true."

"So this is about _Redemption_?" She was curious now.

"That is perhaps an over-simplification, certainly a tad over-dramatic, and a little hokey too. But it works for me! You see, I have recently learned that anyone can help out."

"Really?" she asked dubiously.

"Yep, I did a little research," he smiled.

"And you're _not_ dead?" she checked.

"_Hello? _Pringle cashmere here."

"What?"

"When I die it will be in the Versace."

"Oh, right."

He examined the sweater spot once more.

"Well, looks like the cashmere will live another day. So, if you're ready, I think we should get going."

"G-get going?" She was just a little panicked by this. _"Where?"_

Jason strode past her into the hall and took her elbow so that she would accompany him.

"Jason, I don't want to go any where!"

They were descending the stairs now.

"Well, that's not exactly the issue," he said escorting her to the front door.

"Jason, I'm wearing flannel pajamas _with Scotty dogs on them!_"

"And they are adorable," he said and opened the front door to conduct her out.

"Couldn't we just watch a movie here?"

"No. I've hired a car."

Lorelai looked out into her driveway then to see a tasteful black limousine with darkened windows awaiting them. A uniformed chauffeur in sunglasses stood quietly by, his hands crossed before him.

"My mother always said that a simple classic limo is the way to go. Stretch limos make one look like a trashy pop singer. And don't even get her started on_ white_ limos," Jason commented, and started walking toward the car.

"Makes sense," replied Lorelai hurrying after him, "But Jason, where are we going?"

"You're a smart girl, Gilmore," he told her as he handed her in, "I'm sure you know I can't tell you that."

And in a moment they were on their way.

Jason leaned forward to an elegant picnic hamper then and pulled out a dish.

"Rumaki?" he offered.

"Please Jason, just give me some idea what I'm in for!"

"No rumaki then. How about a martini?"

Lorelai stared at him a moment.

"They're extra dry," he coaxed.

"Fine," she sighed, giving up.

"Excellent," beamed Jason, as he pulled a silver shaker from the hamper and poured them each a drink.

"Now, what shall we toast to?"

"I swear to God, Jason, if you are taking me someplace to watch people playing _The Minister's Cat,_ I will kill you."

"How many film versions of that story have you seen?" he laughed.

"If you count the one with the singing Muppets, then twelve."

They drank in silence a moment.

"I'm sorry your condo wasn't on fire," she finally said.

"Okay..."

"I didn't mean it that way," she dithered. "I just meant that I'm sorry they pulled that joke on you."

"Well, they wanted me to leave."

"I know, but they shouldn't have done it that way."

"I was being a pest and it was a better option than The Swirly."

"You're being understanding," she told him appreciatively.

"Who would'a thunk it?" he quipped. "I won't lie and tell you it's been easy, Lorelai. It hasn't. I really wanted something with you."

"I know and I am sorry."

He nodded and looked away a moment.

"Well," he tried more blithely then, "Tonight is not about me. And if you don't drop dead from shock over that statement then you truly are invincible."

She smiled.

"Thank you, Jason."

"To the journey," he clinked her glass with his own.

She sighed at that and took a sip.

She glanced out the window then.

"Jason, we're in Hartford! In _my parents _neighborhood!"

"Oh? _Do tell_!"

They swept into the Gilmore driveway then and Jason hopped out, then leaned back in and looked at her through the doorway.

"Come on... Secretly you're dying to know what's next..." he smiled.

"I hate you!" she groused and got out of the car.

"You know, " she said as she followed him up the walk, "I have absolutely no evidence that your little visit tonight has anything to do with Divine Intervention."

"Oh yeah?" he grinned at her, "Have _you_ ever gotten rumaki out of cashmere with nothing but cold water and a hair dryer?"

"Huh. Good point. Hey, don't you think my parents will find it a little odd? Us showing up, I mean. And me in my pajamas.".

"I don't think they'll notice a thing," he replied and leaned in to ring the bell.

The door was opened then, not by one of many beleaguered maids, but by a small boy of about ten years of age. He sported longish dark hair and large dark eyes. He was pale with dark circles under his eyes. Asthmatic perhaps, Lorelai guessed.

"Hello," said Jason kindly to this boy. "Are they in the living room?"

The boy only pulled the door open for them wider and then shut it closed when they passed.

Jason looked over his shoulder to the child.

"Don't be scared," he told him kindly. Lorelai caught her breath at the gentleness in his voice.

The dark boy only stared at them.

Jason took hold of Lorelai's elbow then and led her into the living room.

Where sat her parents and his together. Emily pouring them coffee.

"...I checked on Rory. She's asleep, poor thing. I think she's still a little tired out from having the flu last week."

"I hope she's quite recovered," said Carol Stiles.

"Oh yes. Just tired. Yale had her working hard right up to the last. It's cream for you, right Floyd?"

"Hello, Mom," said Lorelai at the living room entrance, "Surprise! Thought I'd come by after all!"

"Well, Emily, I must say that I believe this may have been your best Christmas Party yet."

Richard told his wife heartily as he accepted his coffee.

"Yes, it did go well," Emily agreed with a smile. "Glad they've all gone now though and we can sit and enjoy old friends."

"_Mom?"_ tried Lorelai again. _"Hello?"_

"Emily, I'd like to triple my offer for your apple tart recipe. I would love to have Juana make some for me at home,"

"Now, Floyd. That recipe has been in my family for years. And I tell you the same thing every year!" scolded Emily.

"I'm wearing Scotty Dog Pajamas in Public!" Lorelai shouted.

"_I_ don't even know the secret ingredient, Floyd, and I've lived with her for nearly forty years!" laughed Richard, "She makes every cook we have sign a confidentiality agreement."

"So, they can't hear us then?"

"Nope," responded Jason, "Are you okay with that?"

"It's a little freaky, but I'm pretty used to them not listening to me."

"I think I can relate there," he told her.

"Poor Jason," she smiled sympathetically.

"How is Lorelai, Emily?" asked Carol then.

"Well, poor Lorelai has the flu herself now."

"Just as well. Might have been a bit awkward. Us all together." responded Floyd.

"I suppose," said Emily coldly.

"Terribly sorry, Emily, that came out wrong."

"Don't think a thing about it, Floyd."

"And how is Jason doing?" asked Richard then politely.

"We don't see him much," replied Carol sadly. "Once the lawsuit was settled, I thought he might come around more."

And they all sat in silence a moment over that.

"Children can be difficult." said Richard finally.

"Carol," began Emily by way of subject change, "I've always wondered how Jason came by that ghastly nick-name of his... What was it? _Plunger?_"

Jason snorted at that. "Would've been if Chris had gotten his way," he whispered to Lorelai. She giggled in response.

"_Digger_," responded Floyd. "That was my doing, Emily."

"Sounds like a story there I haven't heard before, Floyd, old man," stated Richard.

"Well, Richard, there is as it happens..."

"Come on..." said Jason to Lorelai and pulled her arm to lead her out of the room.

"Hey!" she protested, "I want to hear that story! And then I want to go knock all the paintings just slightly askew, and put salt in the sugar bowl, sugar in the salt shaker, then packing tape over the toilet seats.... Oh, and a big poster of Boy George in the library up over the Rory portrait!"

"Maybe later," he told her, as he pulled her toward the garden door.

Jason turned the knob on the French door leading to the garden then and pushed it open, gesturing for Lorelai to step through. As she crossed the threshold, she blinked at a sudden bright light that blinded her.

"What is that light?" she asked and put her hand over her eyes in irritation.

"The sun," whispered Jason in her ear, "takes a minute to get used to."

When Lorelai could open her eyes, she looked about.

"This isn't Emily's garden," she frowned.

It wasn't. Instead they were on a broad cobblestoned terrace overlooking a sparkling pool and its requisite pool house below. A formally groomed rose garden blazed in glory in the bright sun at the pool's edge, and beyond stood a lush wooded area.

"No, it isn't," Jason agreed.

"It looks familiar, though."

"You were here once."

"_Jason! _Come here! Right now, young man!" they heard a voice boom.

They watched then as the little dark boy who had opened the door for them before dropped out of a nearby tree and walked dejectedly, head down, toward the pool house.

"Come on," said Jason and started to the pool house as well.

"I don't want to," said Lorelai unable to put down a rising uneasiness.

He paused and looked at her, "I know you don't, Lorelai. I know you just want to eat chips and watch tv in peace. I understand. There are things in the world that we all want to hide from. But there are many who can't hide, Lorelai. Many. And though you and I have problems in our lives, offenses taken, cars that break down, narrow minded asses for parents, and computers that run slowly too... We need now to realize that these are not problems at all. I could fly you over Rwanda, or take you to one of many orphanages in Bagdhad, probably a soup kitchen in Montreal in deepest winter would be enough, but I've only brought you to a beautiful garden in Hartford on a July afternoon. You can do it. It is only one very small story."

"I'm still scared," she whispered.

"I know."

Together they followed the boy into the pool house.

"Come closer, Jason," demanded Floyd from the bar where he stood.

The child walked warily closer to his father.

"Do you see your mother over there? Do you see how you've upset her?"

Lorelai swivelled her neck to the sofa at the room's edge, and saw a much younger Carol Stiles reclining there with a cold cloth across her forehead."

"She had to double her dosage today, Jason. Does that make you happy?"

Clearly the child knew better than to answer.

"Now, it is my understanding that you received nearly fifteen hundred dollars in cash and checks at that ridiculous AquaMan birthday party you had last Saturday. The party your mother went to a great deal of trouble to plan, by the way.

Still the child studied his shoes.

"Look me in the eye when I am speaking!"

The boy snapped his head upward to meet his father's gaze.

"The police came to see me this morning, Jason. The police. Do you know why?"

"No, sir," the boy finally spoke.

"They found that Mexican girl, and the very best maid your mother has ever had, walking at the end of our driveway, suitcase in her hand, and fifteen hundred dollars in her purse at four am! Fifteen hundred dollars, Jason! Naturally they were suspicious and contacted me wanting to know where a Mexican maid got fifteen hundred dollars, and why she was leaving our home by cover of darkness at that ungodly hour."

"I g-gave her the money," whispered the boy.

"Excuse me?" queried his father, coldly quiet now.

"I gave it to her... sir."

"You _gave_ it to her?"

"Yes."

"You gave the maid all of the money you got for your eighth birthday?"

"Yes, sir."

Floyd turned and walked a way a moment. His fury palpable. He clinked some ice into a glass then, poured himself a scotch, and downed it.

"It seems you clearly have a thing or two to learn about managing money, son," he said without bothering to look at the boy.

"She was homesick, sir. For her mother. And her mother is sick. Gilberta was crying in the kitchen, so I gave it to her so she could visit her mom."

"Oh, Jason," moaned his mother from under her cloth, "you can't give these people money like that."

"She was just going to see her mother. She was going to pay me back."

Floyd snorted in derision at that.

"But we have lots of money...." protested the boy.

"Correction: _I _have lots of money! You gave yours away to Mexican trash and now have none."

"It just didn't seem right," said the boy softly.

"Oh, _for chrisakes_! I will not abide this 'have and have not' crap from my own son! Carol, I will not have my son talking to me this way! Jason Edward Stiles, for your information, there is nothing wrong with being rich!"

"There might be sir, when others don't have anything. Doesn't seem fair."

_Thwack!_

It took a moment for the sting of the slap to be felt. So, the sound first, then the sting. Then the shock that it happened. And then the not-really-being-so-shocked at all, because of the many times it had happened before.

"If a _Mexican maid_ needs money, she can damn well work for it like the rest of us!"

Floyd poured another scotch, clearly detesting this loss of composure.

"Now, Jason, here is what is going to happen now," he eyed the boy over his glass, "Your mother and I are going to the Hamptons house for six weeks, during which time you will go to camp as usual. When we return in the fall, you will be transferring to The Groton Residential Boys School. We will re-evaluate later as to whether or not you may return at the holidays."

"Y-yes, sir. W-what about Gilberta, sir?"

"_Who_?"

"The maid."

"She will be charged with theft and deported, I imagine. Taking money from a stupid child! The lawyers will deal with it."

"But..."

"Damn fine thing! Now your mother needs to find and train a new maid."

"But, _sir_...."

"And, you will receive no pocket money for camp as your punishment, Jason. If you want money, you'll just have to dig for it, I suppose. Ha! Like treasure. Dig for your own gold, son. See how quickly you give it away then! I will, of course, always provide for your education. That is the proper thing, but this incident shows very poorly for your future, boy. I seriously doubt that you'll ever be able to dig yourself into anything at all. Digger, heh... that's you now, boy. Carol, I'm fed up with this. I'm going to the club and won't be home for dinner."

"Fine, dear," they heard in the laconic tones of Carol Stiles.

"Her _medication_ is kicking in," whispered Jason to Lorelai, "it lessens the melodrama."

Lorelai nodded and they watched then as Floyd strode from the room, leaving the dark boy blinking after him. The moment's silence which ensued only broken finally by a soft snoring from Carol. The child looked over at his mother then and let his shoulders slump.

"Hey," said Jason to the boy as he pulled something from his back pocket, "I've got the latest issue. Wanna read with me?"

The boy broke into a small smile then when he saw _AquaMan! _blazed across the cover of the comic book.

"He can hold his breath underwater forever!" said the child.

"Superman can't even do that," Jason agreed.

"You're not really Jason at all, are you?" said Lorelai with a sudden flash of insight. The dark haired-man smiled at her then walked over to join the little boy.

The two sat on the floor and began to read the comic book together, and with one last look at them, Lorelai slipped outside. In a moment she found the French door back into her mother's home, and was back behind her father's chair listening in no time at all.

"What was the boy thinking giving away all his money like that? It would be worth something today if he had invested it shrewdly," mused Richard.

"Digger needed toughening up, that's certain. My own son! Sending him away seemed the best choice," responded Floyd, as Carol put down her coffee cup and picked up the nearby glass full of sherry.

"I wonder what became of the maid," wondered Emily quietly to herself.

Lorelai swiped at her eyes, sniffed, and left the room then. She climbed the stairs to Rory's bedroom and tip-toed in. She felt then as if a deep thirst had been quenched when she caught sight of her sleeping child, and sighed for the relief of it. She slid into bed behind her daughter, spooned around her, and kissed the top of her head too.

"_Thank you, God, for this," _she whispered before falling asleep.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Fire!! was her first coherent thought.

Then, _Fire!!! _She sat up hastily, and looked over at the still sleeping Rory.

"Rory! Wake up! _There's a fire!_" she shook her daughter a little desperately. Oh, my God! She could definitely smell smoke!

She shook Rory again as the relentless alarm blared through the house, _"Rory!"_

"Dammit!" she heard, "That always happens!"

She turned then to see an old man standing over her, a lit-cigar in his mouth, puffing away.

"W-who are you?" she demanded in panic.

"Don't recognize me, huh? Well, I guess when you met me I wasn't exactly looking my best. 'Bout dropped a guppy when you told them to get a bungee cord to lash me in!" chuckled the old guy. "Hold on a sec," he added.

He dropped his cigar on the carpet then and stamped it out. Instantly the wailing alarm silenced.

"That's better," he smiled down at Lorelai.

"You just stamped out a cigar on my mother's Aubusson."

"Yep," he grinned with yellowed teeth. "We'll wait for you downstairs."

"You'll be waiting a long time then!" she yelled crankily. "And I'm not taking the fall for that carpet burn, Mister... Whoever you are!"

She heard chuckling follow as the old man walked out.

She peered over at Rory then. Clearly, she hadn't heard a thing. She looked at the clock; three am.

"_You will have three visitors..."_

She got stiffly out of bed and walked grumpily to the door. This was sleep deprivation on a Herculean scale and she was heartily sick of it.

She stomped downstairs and into the living room then. It was dark now. All signs of the Gilmores, the Stiles, and the earlier Christmas party long since cleaned up.

"I hope Uncle Louie didn't scare you," she heard.

She turned then to see a willowy figure standing next to the piano.

"Hello, Lorelai. After tonight, I don't suppose even my appearance can surprise you."

"_Nicole?_"

"Yes."

"Y-you look beautiful."

"Thank you."

She stood before Lorelai in a lovely long white gown. Billowy and soft. Her strawberry blonde hair, curled elegantly, framing her face.

"Like a bride," Lorelai went on.

"That is very gratifying, I have to say," Nicole responded on with a blush. "I always thought _you_ so beautiful and felt so awkward whenever you were around. Never knew what to say. And, I admit that it took me forever to decide what to wear tonight."

"Well, you definitely put my Scotty dogs to shame!"

"Lorelai, I know what you think of me..."

"Oh, no...."

"But I'm not here about that tonight."

"Okay."

"Will you come with me?"

"I think you're the first one tonight to actually _ask._"

Nicole laughed and reached her hand out to Lorelai.

"Come on."

Lorelai reached forward and clasped the cool white hand extended her.

"I'm not dead, either," Nicole leaned in to whisper then.

Lorlelai swallowed, "Good to know."

"Have fun, ladies!" called Louie after them, as the front door swung open seemingly under its own power, and the two women stepped out into the misty night holding hands.

The mist continued to gather about them as they walked.. Lorelai was completely unable to identify where they were, but she could feel Nicole's confident hand in her own, and that gave a certain measure of security.

"I realize you want to know where we are going," smiled Nicole kindly.

"And I know you can't tell me," responded Lorelai in understanding.

Nicole nodded.

"You're making him very happy, by the way," Nicole finally spoke again, a bit shyly, after a few moments walking hand in hand in silence.

Lorelai felt her heart leap to her throat, "_Really? _Are you sure?" she asked, terribly full of hope at that.

"Yes."

"Nicole... I want to say..."

"Shhh," Nicole shook her head, "we're here."

"We are? Where?"

"Look."

Lorelai glanced down to where Nicole was pointing and, as the mist artfully parted, made out a simple headstone before her.

Mary Virginia Williams Danes it read on the left.

Joseph Walker Danes it read to the right.

The ususal dates and beloveds listed below.

Lorelai caught her breath.

"His parents?"

"Yes. Mary and Joe met one summer when he came to work at her father's hardware store. After they married, and when the old man eventually passed, Joe took it over. He kept the Williams on the building for the old man, though. In gratitude. Not a very original story, but lovely nonetheless."

"Sounds just like Luke."

"Yes, it does. He will bring you here one day soon to see this. He won't make a big deal of it. He'll pass the trip off with some excuse. But know this, Lorelai, he's never brought anyone else here before."

"You really were in love with him," Lorelai observed quietly.

"The one who stands for me in the world was, yes. But he was quiet and sullen and not forthcoming for her. For you though, he is," she said simply, her eyes full of meaning.

"I love him too."

"I know do and you must tell him so. Like yours, his is also the sin of self-absorption, but of a different sort. You must tell him, Lorelai, and bring him back out to the world. You are strong and can do this. You and he _are_ for each other and mustn't ruin this. There is no fate or soul mates on your plane, there is merely the absolute best for you that can be while living. And, contrary to popular belief, it can be screwed up. So, tell him Lorelai. Tell him in the morning."

"I haven't done that before. Not really. And never first."

"You've done very little in this life much beyond yourself, Lorelai," observed Nicole archly.

"Ouch!"

"But true."

Lorelai sighed her acquiescence to that.

"I understand. I must go first this time. I get it. But where is your dramatic reveal? The miserable child? The selfish Lorelai? You know,_ the lesson_ landing with a great big anvil 'thud' on my head?"

"Do you really need _more_, Lorelai? You and I are bright women. We can do this with words. I am only here for summation. Do you need more than the knowledge that far too often in this life you have thought of yourself first? That children and the disadvantaged suffer right smack in the face of the great wealth around you? That yes, wealth _is_ wrong when the only charity it serves is the throwing of grand parties to reinstate obscure fowl to the wetlands? When you know damn well that you are able change this and other things within your own small sphere. What_ more_ could you possibly need?"

"The cost of my mother's dress for that function alone probably could have saved those damn birds," reflected Lorelai on the last 'save the whatever' function her mother had hosted.

"Yes, it could have. And done far more too. Now you are beginning to see. I will postpone your trip to Darfur. For now."

"So what happens to me, and them, now?"

"Do not despair, Lorelai. You do not deserve that luxury. I am a lawyer. I could call forth a string of witnesses to testify to your goodness too, the entertainment and joy you bring, the lifting of hearts just a smile from you can spark. As for your parents, perhaps they will receive their own visitations, I cannot say. But you must value your own life and try to influence those around you to improve the lot of others. That is your lesson. In a nutshell."

"So,_ It's a Wonderful Life_?"

"Lorelai, The Heavenly Powers above could employ the crowbar of Atlas and still not get half the apathetic world off it's collective ass to help the other half."

"Wow, depressing."

"Yes. But stories might. Like these we have shown you tonight. And other much better ones created by my betters. One story at a time, we might show each of you, by proxy, that turning the other cheek, saying 'I love you', and how giving up that precious green can make a helluva difference in many, many lives."

"Is that tonight's moral then, councilor?"

Nicole smiled, "Someone had to shake your pretty head out of _In Style _magazine and The WB, Lorelai."

"And you came to do that for me?"

"I came to do that for _him_."

"Ah."

"Follow that path through the trees there, and you will find your way home now. Others will help you along the way. It is tonight's final parable," Nicole told her then.

Lorelai turned to look at the wooded path she indicated, just visible through the mist, knowing pretty well that when she turned back, Nicole would be gone.

And, of course, she was.

Lorelai sighed and made her way to the path then, her mind reeling with the events of the night. Thinking about Luke, and Kirk, and her family's money too. And poor Gilberta....Wondering what the hell _she_ could do about it all... That was a start, she supposed.

She continued in this way for some distance until a voice stopped her...

"Hello, Lorelai."

She looked up to the man standing in the path before her.

"Max, it's good to see you," she told him with a smile, oddly comforted and not at all surprised, by his presence.

"Rory wanted books in the story tonight so she sent me... well, _us_, with them," he explained and extended a volume to her.

"What's this?" she asked curiously.

"Sachs for the wonder of it all. Seems anyone can help."

She nodded and looked over the book.

Max was gone too by the time she finished.

And her journey continued thus as she walked through the dark woods that Christmas night.

People who she knew appearing on the path before her. Sometimes alone, sometimes in groups, often with the most incongruous of offerings, would hand her a book and speak a few simple words so that she might learn the why of it. Sometimes it spoke of them too. Sometimes of her.

She would take the book given and move on through the mist only to meet a new benefactor or friend around the next corner, or even just leaning against the next tree.

"Dickens for humor and tragedy," smirked Jess, "and the poverty too, of course."

And he handed her a book as did each in their turn.

"For the soul and survival of spirit: Friere," said Straub Hayden.

"You must have Cisneros for family, Lorelai," Richard and Emily told her.

"Shakespeare for betrayal." From Dean, Marty, and some blonde kid in an ascot.

"Only Cather grasps the healing we receive when embraced by the earth," Jackson proclaimed mistily. Sookie comfortingly by his side smiling.

"Gotta have Austen for people and society, doll," grinned Babbette.

Rory was next, sitting completely unafraid astride Cletus, "Hogdson Burnett for grit, Mom."

And at last, Miss Patty stood with a sort of glow about her, a sequined top hat on her head, at the end of her driveway, surrounded by dancing child angels in the snow.

"Neruda for love, darling. Collette for sex (you can work up to deMaupasant on your own)," she leered with a wink, and walked airily off toward the town square, the angels cavorting behind.

Lorelai watched her go, her arms heavy with books now, then turned to walk slowly into her home, up the stairs, and fall into bed, Cather's _The Lark_ under her cheek for a pillow.

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Now you and I would think that after such a night Lorelai Gilmore of all people would sleep until noon, then bump about as she got dressed and crank until coffee.

But not today, Friends.

Not this Christmas morning.

Today she awoke, alert and sure of herself before first light. She hopped out of bed to pull on her jeans and scribble a hasty note to Rory.

She did not need to look for the books, she wasn't an idiot. She knew they wouldn't be there.

And before you get too excited by this, you must know that this will not be a permanent pattern for her. Not at all. The bumping and cranking will recommence in a few weeks at full and standard Gilmore standards. But that is not to say that Lorelai will be unchanged by her extraordinary experience. Not at all.

She will be changed. And better for it. She will think less of herself and actually do more for others beyond her little sphere. I could take you into the future and show you a hilarious episode in which she and Emily volunteer at a homeless shelter, and another in which Kirk gets fabulously wealthy, with Richard's backing, with his ingenious Locker Insurance Policy program for high school students.

Or, I could take you to that wonderful day not to far away in which Luke and Lorelai are finally able to adopt their foster son Jose.

But this story is way too long already.

Suffice it to say that hilarity and true goodness ensue in all cases. With a little drama on the side. Especially during sweeps.

But back to the here and now...

Down the stairs, out her front door, and into the pre-dawn light marches our new and improved Lorelai Gilmore, Friends.

Look at her. An old flannel of Luke's. No make up. A down jacket tossed over all. I think she is more beautiful now than ever.

She hurries to the diner, of course. For Luke (and a little for the coffee too—she is still, after all, our Lorelai, and only human, and has had a helluva a night besides)

She waits then, her heart beating to burst, for him to come down and into the diner, and when he does, and sees her too, he comes quickly to turn the bolt.

"Luke!" she threw herself tearfully into his arms then.

"Lorelai, what the...?"

"I missed you so much!"

"Are you still feverish?" he pulled away from her in concern to look into her face.

"No, no," she brushed it off, "Lulu gave me some magic popcorn. I feel fine! But I need to talk to you..."

"Lulu gave you_ what? _Are you all right?"

"Yes! No! I don't know! I had these visitors... or a bad cheese dream. I don't know which, and I don't care!" she laughed wildly.

"Visitors? Lorelai, you're talking crazy. Who visited you?"

"I don't know how to explain it. Or what I'm allowed to say. I don't want you to commit me, after all. Let's just call them Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail!"

"_What?"_

"Too cute? How about Been There, Done That and Bought The Souvenir?"

"Lorelai..."

"Woulda, Shoulda, Coulda?"

"Stop! I'm begging you! What are you going on about?"

"Luke, it's Christmas and I'm in love with you! I love you, do you understand? I. Love. You. You don't have to respond in kind, not right away. Though it would be nice if you've got the itch. I just want you to know that I think... I think you're it for me. And I want you to know it before it's too late."

"Too late? For what?"

"I love you, Luke," she said again more softly.

"I love you too," he told her and she saw his eyes begin to well a bit.

"Good," she breathed at last, and in relief. "And we're spending the day together, you and I." she told him matter of factly. "Christmas Day. I will help you with the diner. I left a note for Rory to meet me here. And then I will wait patiently while you run your mystery errand and won't even ask what it is. And then I'll be happy when you come home. And then we'll go to bed and I'll let you know again just _how much _I love you..."she snuggled into his neck.

Luke stared down at her head on his shoulder over this outburst and caught his breath at the wonder of it too, as she finally fell silent.

"It's for your ring," he told her quietly. She pulled away to look up at him.

"The errand. Some jeweler friend of Liz' made it. He was supposed to have it finished yesterday but he flaked. And I was pissed because I wanted it for you for last night. For Christmas eve. I wanted to ask you, you know, in the snow and the moonlight and all that crap like you would want. And the jerk didn't finish it. And I wasn't going to have anything to give you until tonight..."

"_Yes_," breathed Lorelai.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I'll marry you!"

"You will?"

"I love you."

"And you'll marry me?"

"Yep, you and me, forever, Dinerman. We can carve it in a tree later."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. But I still want the ring."

"You can come with me to get it," he said happily and leaned in to her lips...

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

And we'll leave them there, Friends.

I'm sure your imaginings for snogging and cooing, and secret-whispered future-promises is much better than anything I could ever write.

So, I'll leave it you, this lovey dovey business. All in your mind's eye. Things are always best there anyway. You can watch them open the diner together, and later go to pick up the ring too. And for the randy among you, peep into the bedroom later tonight as well.

Which gives a wonderful Gilmorian double meaning to my final words which I steal from T.S. Elliot. He was trying to call the indolent to the work of society too: To move away and out of ourselves, _to help_. Only so much more cleverly than I. But that goes without saying.

"_Are you coming?_" he asks of us all.

"_Are you coming?"_

"_Are you coming?"_

I took up his call herein and, chain letter like, pass it on to your very capable hands.

I must go now. Three little girls have come to my door to sing Christmas Carols! They've asked nothing in return. Now even I am a true believer.

God bless you.

And hey,_ thanks._

**Epilogue**

I, of course, do not own just about anything I've written about in the ponderous story above. The Gilmorian universe is all Sherman-Palladino. AquaMan, certainly not. And, of course, I am prostrate before T.S. Elliot and Mr. Chas. Dickens too, for the gift of one of the finest and most often parodied, copied, stolen, and poorly-aspired-to-by-hack-writers-everywhere stories in the English language.

I would love to see Dickens lampoon today: The realities of what it is to live in Orange County where I used to teach (more of my students living in residential hotels, warehouses, and garages, than anything approaching real homes) versus _The OC_ on television, for instance. Or, perhaps those who invest their time in proprietary squabbles for TV show spoilers on the boards?! Ha! Maybe even in the way we skip right over reports of genocide to get to the Christmas sale flyers in the newspaper.

He would delight in all this, Dickens, I think. These little everyday petty things can be so hilarious that I want to cry for the tragedy of them (being perhaps the worst offender among you).

And, lacking as I must, the ability to create something out of absolutely nothing as true writers can, I've tweaked and borrowed perhaps for the last time.

I'm out of my own words now, and depth too, (I am no AquaWoman!), so I will borrow again from the greats...

**Dickens...**

I have endeavored in this Ghostly little book, to raise the Ghost

of an Idea, which shall not put my readers out of humour with

themselves, with each other, with the season, or with me. May

it haunt their houses pleasantly, and no one wish to lay it.

**Gilmore...**

...Dirty!


	11. Morals

Note: mis-attributed the Elliot line in the last piece which is what happens when I quote poetry from my very spotty memory. Realized that at three a.m. last night. Maybe I'll fix it sometime.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

5.11: _Women of Questionable Morals _addition. Picks up right afterLorelai skates back to Luke.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_She skated right into his arms then, snaking them around his neck as he absorbed the impact of her momentum with his body. She leaned in and kissed him softly..._

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

_Another kiss..._

"Okay, look, I can't do this any longer, Luke."

"You've only been skating for two minutes... "

"No, that's not..."

"Does your foot still hurt?"

"No, Luke, that's not it..."

"Oh. Your headache! I forgot. Do you want to sit down? Or I could go get you some Tylenol or something...?"

"Luke, it's not my head! I mean, yes, it does still hurt, but that's not it."

"Oh. Okay."

"Could we sit for a minute?"

"Sure. Is the rink okay?"

"The rink is wonderful. Perfect. It's me. I am neither wonderful, nor perfect."

"Is this where I'm supposed to argue with you and tell you how wonderful you are? Because I'm pretty sure I made that point clearly around midnight the other night."

"Yes, you did. But, no, you're not supposed to argue with me about it."

"Then what is it, Lorelai?"

"You were right earlier."

"I was right?"

"Yes."

"Could you say that again, please?"

"'You were right,' okay? Wipe that smile off your face, please. Don't you even want to know what you were right about?"

"Not really. Just hearing you say that in a general way is satisfying enough."

"Ha.ha. But I need to tell you."

"Then, shoot."

"I _was_ lying. Before, I mean. That's what you were right about."

"You are getting sick?"

"No, I was hungover. Still am a little, I think."

"_Hungover_? Why? How?"

"The usual way. Okay, this is where I have to tell you something. And I don't want to. I really don't because we're so good, you know? So happy. And...."

"Lorelai, what is it?"

"I wasn't home last night."

"Okay..."

"I went to Christopher's... Well, to his mother's. She was upstairs under the influence of her 'happy pills', and Gigi was asleep, and so Chris and I were downstairs alone all evening."

"I see."

"Luke, his father died."

"Oh."

"His father, Luke. Who had been horrible to him. Not like your father. He never built him a rink. I mean he was a really awful man. He told Rory she'd been a mistake once. To her face."

"_What?!_ What kind of sonaofabitch does that?"

"Focus, Luke. So I went over because for all that is wrong with Chris he has been in my life forever. And I'm sorry if that bothers you. I really am, but there it is. So I took a bottle of tequila and we drank it, and I listened while he talked about his dad. And that was it."

"Wow."

"Yes. Wow. Luke, I am so sorry."

"Rory said you were girl talking."

"Yes, she did."

"Did you tell her to lie?"

"Luke..."

"_Did you_?"

"Rory adores you Luke. You've always been there for her. And she knows how happy I am with you. She's afraid Chris will screw things up."

"Only if you let him."

"Well, I won't."

"I don't understand why you didn't just tell me."

"I know... it was stupid."

"Why didn't you?"

"What?"

"Just tell me. Why didn't you?"

"Luke, we don't need to go into all that. Can you forgive me? is the real question."

"No, it isn't. The real question is why you didn't tell me."

"Luke..."

"Why didn't you tell me, Lorelai?!"

"Luke, I really don't think..."

"Tell me!"

"Because I was afraid to, all right?!""

"So you do have feelings for him!"

"No, you big grumpy.. Rink-giver, you! I mean, yes, of course I have feelings for him. He's Rory's father..."

"He's a stupid irresponsible jerk who doesn't deserve her!"

"Yes, you're right. Okay? He is. But he's still her father."

"Who you have feelings for!"

"Not in the way you're thinking."

"Then why didn't you tell me the truth about last night?!"

"Because I'm afraid of _you_, okay?!"

"What? _Afraid of me? _What the hell? That's crap! Tell me that's crap, Lorelai!"

"Well, not _afraid_-afraid. It's just... you tend to go off, you know. And that's scary. I mean, for godsakes Luke, I watched you beat up a car! I watched you beat up a sixteen year old! I've watched you beat up Kirk about forty-seven million times!

"Lorelai... My God, you don't think I'd ever....?"

"No, Luke! No! Of course not! That's not it. It's just that you, despite that razor sharp chin exfolliator that you sport, are a very sensitive man."

"_Come again?"_

"You take the things you hear and just... react. With no processing in between. And I don't want to hurt you. I don't. Ever. So when Rory jumped in with the girl-talk thing, I was almost convinced that I was protecting you in some way. But maybe I was just protecting myself. I don't know, Luke. I really don't. I just don't want to screw this up. So I had to tell you now. And please don't beat anything up, because I really really like my new ice rink."

"Wow."

"Please, _please_ don't be hurt... Luke?"

"I don't know what to say..."

"I'm sorry. Really sorry. Just forget that I said..."

"Nothing happened between you and Chris?"

"I watched him puke into a Waterford bowl. That's it. No, Luke, nothing happened. Of course not. And nothing will.

I love... that you gave me this rink. That you are who you are... I don't want anyone else."

"Wow. Well, I..."

"What?"

"I love... that the rink makes you happy."

"It does, Luke. You do too."

"Well, good. But you're scared of me. You said you were scared of me."

"No. I'm frightened by how easily hurt you can be and how you react to that sometimes. And I'm a big screw-up. Famous for hurting people, and I just can't bear the thought of hurting you."

"Or making me angry?"

"Luke, sometimes it's sort of part of the same thing."

"I see. Wow."

"Yeah, wow, again."

"Lorelai, you know I would never hurt you, right?"

"Oh, Luke. I knew I shouldn't have said anything. I am so stupid! Please don't take this too much to heart. Of course you would never hurt me. I know that, sweetie."

"I mean, Dean and I just wrestled."

"I know. I know."

"And I didn't leave a mark on that car."

"I know that too."

"And I only chase Kirk for his own good."

"And it totally builds his character, Luke. I know. You're right. Even when you're violent you're a sweetie. I know that. It's just that..."

"It scares you?"

"A little. Sometimes. Yes. I'm sorry."

"Okay. Well, we can work on that. I don't want you afraid. But you lying is not going to help with the making progress issue here."

"I totally agree. I totally agree.Which is why I'm fessing up now, Luke. I am so sorry."

"Well, I am too."

"Okay."

"Okay."

"Good. So Luke, are _we _good then?

"We are. I just need to process a little."

"Okay, Luke. You do that. Take all the time you need."

"All right. I will."

"I'm sorry again."

"I know. Just gonna process now."

"Good. Do you wanna watch me do a Hammil Camel at the same time?"

"Will you be wearing those jeans while you're doing it?"

"Yes."

"Then I might get a little distracted from the processing."

"God, I love you."

"You do?"

"Yeah, I really think I do. You probably need some time to process that too..."

"I think I might."

"Okay. I'm going to skate now. In these jeans. You watch. And process. If you can."

"Right. I'll do that."


	12. Home

5.12: _Come Home _addition. Luke reflects.

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Fun, the surprises...

And that stopped him for a moment.

He hadn't really reflected much on fun before. Not in a long time, anyway.

He grabbed the towels off the bathroom rod and tossed them on the floor with the pile of sheets and kitchen towels as he thought about it.

Not that he liked surprises very much really. Not for himself.

He grabbed her washcloth off the hook in the shower. A little lipstick still on it.

It was always better to give them. Surprises that is. Give them to her anyway. Building a rink. Waiting until she went to brush her teeth to set up the new tv.

Her reaction was worth all effort. Without fail.

He tossed the washcloth onto the pile then stooped to gather it all into his arms.

Though, he smiled a little at this as he walked across the apartment to the walk-in closet that housed the washer and dryer, it had been a pretty good surprise for him when she'd talked him through the stove fix.

"Oh, I am a manual reader from way back, my friend," she'd assured him later that evening with a laugh as he pressed down upon her on the bed.

"Any specific _sorts_ of manuals especially?" he growled as he sucked an earlobe between his lips.

"Oh, God," she moaned... "A-all sorts, really... Ahhh," she breathed in then (he was at the base of her neck now.)

"Mmmm..."

His turn to moan then as she slipped her hands down inside jeans and scraped her fingernails along his ass.

"And why is that? The manual thing?" he managed to maintain his line of inquiry.

"It's an hotel manager thing," she sighed now as he splayed his fingers into her hair and lightly kissed her lips, then eyes, "Lots of equipment in an hotel. Mmm...Pretty big equipment sometimes..."

He responded to this by thrusting his hips against her stomach.

She giggled.

"One time I wired an entire entertainment equipment system for my mother," she added proudly.

He lifted his head to look deeply into her eyes then.

"No mother talk," he commanded solemnly.

"Sorry," she laughed. "Is the _Entertainment Equipment_ talk okay?"

"Dirty?"

"Do you know exactly who it is you're sucking on right now?

"I beg your pardon," he said and went back about his business...

...Yeah, that kind of surprise fun was good too, he reflected with a small smile then.

He tossed the sheets and towels and washcloth into the washer on top of the scattered scoop of detergent.

"Women should learn to manage their own equipment," she'd gone on then as he kissed down her throat and unbuttoned her blouse at once.

"Jocelyn Elders got fired for that kinda talk," he remarked drily.

"Well, a single woman can't always be sure that a man will be handy. For the managing of the equipment, that is."

"I happen to be very detail oriented in that department."

"Yes, that's true," she sighed.

The blouse was off now.

"Not only that, but you've proven all those studies right too, by the way," she went on.

"The R.E.M. studies?"

"The foreplay studies."

The fronthook bra was quickly disposed of now.

"Oh, those," he sighed, and breathed in the creamy warmth of her skin, better than cooking, better than the pines by the lake...

"Yep. They say that there is a direct correlation between time spent on foreplay and intelligence.The longer the foreplay, the higher the intelligence."

Surprised, he lifted his eyes to look her in the eye, "Really?" he blinked.

"Shut up and kiss me, Einstein," she laughed.

...Definitely fun, surprises like that.

He shut the washer door then and screwed the dial to hot.


	13. Blues

5.13: _Wedding Bell Blues_ addition. One Small Spoiler. Lorelai reflects.

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_The perfect man_...

Well, so much for that.

No, not fair.

He _is_ perfect.

Or, _was_. Gotta remember that past tense thing now.

Perfect for her, anyway.

Too grumpy for many.

Not the sparkling conversationalist needed by some.

And he didn't really like to go out and do stuff, that was true. A lot of people like to have that.

No Mayflowering ancestor required by certain others, that was for damn sure.

(She grit her teeth at the last.)

But perfectly perfect for her. And what she wanted. _Who_ she wanted.

Only didn't have any more.

"B-but... I love you," she'd said quietly (surprising even herself after he'd told her again that it was all too much.)

And which froze him up quicker than red-painted toes cramped into Manolo Blahniks on Groundhog Day.

She'd waited a lifetime of a moment for a response then, and when it did not come, turned around and marched out...

...The Blahniks, clicking out of the garage, carrying her right along with them.

And now, as she lay for the twenty-seventh straight hour in bed, her baby blues parched beyond anything, she knew that if nothing else, she'd said it.

Finally. And had meant it too.

And perhaps, ultimately, at the grand Pearly Gate weighing in come judgment day that would be the important thing.

But cold, cold comfort now when you realize you're so far gone, you've almost ordered the sparkly fish sweater in navy from the Quacker Factory.

She flipped over to the re-run of the Giant Vegetable special then, wondering, yet again, what exactly one did with a sixty-three pound celery after it had been weighed and affixed with the winning blue ribbon.

Compost? Bloody Mary stirrers for five hundred?

She blinked at the giant celery on the tv then, trying to stay awake.

She didn't want to fall asleep. Not again.

Giant vegetables haunted her dreams. She ran from them in sparkly fish sweaters, wearing yellow Morton's salt boots.

_Augh! _

She threw the beloved remote against the wall.

But the thud and crack were not at all satisfying so she turned over into the silence of the room.

She should have known better, she realized (again) as she squeezed her eyes shut at the shuddering memory of it all.

She watched the little floating shapes inside her too-dry eyelids for a moment then.

"Your mother cannot tolerate this silence from you, Lorelai," her father intoned imperially over the phone.

"Well, that's too damn bad," she hissed back, twelve years old again.

"We're talking about your mother here, Lorelai. _You mother_. Not another of your many boyfriends. Shame on you, young lady!"

"No, Dad. Shame on her! Shame, shame, _shame_!..."

"I'll speak to you again, Lorelai, when you can be reasonable."

Her father hung up, reducing her another two years to ten.

She picked up the alarm clock and heaved it at the door.

It made an odd ring before it landed.

Then closed her eyes again.

And with the end of that conversation she knew herself to be, once more, shuffled away by her parents and their wants. Their surety that what was right and good in the world came along with to whom you were born. Your birth certificate no more than pedigree papers at Westminster. And, as she could not align herself with that, her punishment was to become nothing more than a Sheldrake to them, to be sent off to the second class club across town that featured a stone boy peeing into a fountain at its entrance.

To prodigally return, all she need do was accept that they were right.

That some were born to marry certain others in this world.

And to hell with the rest.

She rolled over onto her back then and stared up at the crack in ceiling plaster (Luke had been planning on fixing it next weekend), and suddenly remembered something from childhood that she'd not thought of in a long time.

The _book_.

That weighty Wharton-esque reference, if one were ever in doubt as to where one was in the order of things (born to marry certain others, or consigned to hell), known as The Social Register.

The so-called _Blue Book_.

This was the catalogue of appropriateness. Not _Debretts_ perhaps, the loftiest of such tomes (a listing of the families dating back a thousand years and depicted on that stupid French tapestry of the Norman Conquest, whatever_ it_ was called.) But acceptable to Emily and Richard nonetheless.

_How could she ever explain The Blue Book to Luke?_

For Men The Blue Book identified those girls who might safely be brought home to mother.

The Rory sorts of the world.

Girls not listed there could, of course, safely be nailed. And only that.

And vice versa.

Except for the fact that Blue Book Girls (_Young Ladies_) do not _nail _anyone.

Or get pregnant.

At least not until they've been suitably hyphenated.

_Dirty! _

"What advice would you offer a couple hoping to join_ Society?_" some nitwit had written to Miss Manners once in the newspaper.

"Don't bother," she'd returned.

Lorelai reached then for the melting margarita next to the bed and chugged heartily.

The ponderous suffocating weight of The Blue Book had been one of things she'd fled those years and years ago.

That and all it could do and be. The set-up Blue-booked dates with boys who didn't even know how to use a payphone because they'd never had to learn (long before cell phones even existed, _man am I old._)

Then there'd been The Mayflower Society Coming Out parties and balls...

The Daughters of the American Revolution Coming Out parties and balls...

The War of 1812 Society Coming Out parties and balls...

The Daughters of the Union... of The Confederacy... Signers of The Declaration of Independence...

All before she'd been old enough to even come out.

_Good practice_, sniffed Emily.

_Gah! _She punched her pillow. It made a weak 'whoosh' of a sound.

She turned her face into the pillow then. That damn book. That damn _Blue Book_. Luke could have all the money in the world and it wouldn't matter to Emily. Luke could be the man she truly loved and it wouldn't matter to her either.

Because Luke wasn't _blue_.

So, she'd had to leave her mother again.

Not literally from the house in the night with a suitcase this time maybe, but it might as well be.

Because where Emily lived, pale-faced and tight-lipped, thin blue lines cris-crossing her arms and heart, there was no air. And no room for not-blue Luke.

Of course she didn't have not-blue Luke any more so this was only margarita-logic.

But it made sense to her.

"I could kegel until I'm blue in the face," sighed Sookie in her condolence call, "but if you have a baby after thirty, you're pretty much gonna pee a bit in your pants every time you sneeze for the rest of your life. That's something they should warn you about up front."

Lorelai could only sigh her co-misery. She had no words. Could not pretend to take the distraction her good friend offered. Could not joke over 'wee pee' word plays...

Of course, Sookie wasn't blue either. Useful as a talented chef, yes. But not _blue_.

She threw her hair scrunchie at the wall then.

It made no sound at all.

"Luke can't face it when things aren't perfect, Lorelai. You know that. He hates conflict. He avoided dealing with Nicole. He hid at your house when Rachel _moved the milk_, for Godsakes. That's who he is. Not perfect. Just like the rest of us."

_He is. He is perfect._

"Thanks for the bulletin."

"Let me finish. He's in love this time, Lorelai, so it's different. You'll work it out. You two always work things out. If only your stupid mother hadn't... then you two would have just talked... Dammit, I'd like to slug Emily in the nose right now!..."

_Get in line._

"...Oh, gotta go, hun! Davey's just puked all over his good sweater and I've got a mother-in-law coming in ten minutes! It'll work out, I promise!..."

She clicked off the phone then and rolled over to look at the curtained window and picture Davey's good sweater. White with curling blue waves and a little boat on it, sailing toward a smiling sun...

She started then at what was clearly the sound of a green truck door closing.

A vintage green truck door.

She hopped out of bed and wobbled a little as she flung herself at the stairs.

Breathless at the front door, she whipped it open to face him.

"I thought you might be at work," he said uncomfortably and then handed her a box.

"Just bringing over some stuff you left..." he went on.

"Oh."

She looked dumbly down into the carton.

"Are you sick?"

She looked up at him. _Yes,_ _heartsick_.

"No."

"Well, good. Okay, gotta go. Just wanted to drop that stuff off. I know you don't like to be without the blue suede high-heels."

She looked back down into the box and focused on the shoes. They had pretty stacked heels.

"Hope you didn't step on 'em," she joked lamely, looking up.

But she was too late. He was gone.


	14. Something

5:14 _Say... Something_ addition. One week later.

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Until you've walked back and forth across the floor, arms aching with the dead weight of your feverish sleeping child who is far too heavy to be carried anymore, but still child enough to _need_ that primal contact with her mother's heartbeat and breathing and scent...

Until you have done this night after night, spine twisted into an awkward question mark around her in a single pink bed, then waking, rising, holding, bathing, feeding, and at last sleeping again in snatched two-hour increments as only wolves must do...

Until you've had to return to this most basic way of existing, the days and nights no longer distinguishable, your own identity gone as your ill baby squirms fretfully in your arms...

Until this happens, you do not know what it is to be finally grown up.

It is to be horribly alone in the dark with dependent blinking eyes staring up at you. The implicit question in them: _Why aren't you making me better?_

And the answering anguish of not knowing how to do that.

Lorelai was thinking about Rory at four am one week after assuring Luke that she would respect his wishes to 'not be in right now' which, of course, only meant being 'out'.

She had gotten up, unable to sleep again, her bed still wide and cold, ostensibly to vacuum. That had been at two am. Now, at five, she had her sewing machine out on the table, her glasses on, and the lamp pulled over to her elbow.

She reset the foot over the fabric and checked the tautness of the thread, then depressed the pedal as she eased the fabric through. The machine hummed out into the night kitchen, the long seam before her closing as the red stitches interlocked above with those of the bobbin beneath. Up and down, up and down, up and down...

Rory, thank God, had rarely been sick as a kid. She'd had Chicken Pox as a surprise at twelve and various colds and flus and the like through the years.

But once, when she was eight, bronchitis had taken hold, only to shortly develop into pneumonia.

They'd only just moved into the house then. It was hollow and huge, and echoed when you walked around it in heels. It felt strange and frightening to have so much room for just them. And, exhilarating too. Furniture was still a dim future luxury, but they had beds and a table and chairs, a cupboard full of macaroni and cheese, a hand-me-down twelve inch color tv (no remote), and three bags of frozen peas in the freezer.

Miraculously, the previous owners had left the refrigerator behind.

It had cost Lorelai every penney she had, a mortgage the size of Texas, and the cashing in of the bonds left her by her maternal grandmother. She sure as hell wouldn't be needing them for college now.

She lifted her hand wearily to the back of her neck then, and squeezed at the tight muscles as she surveyed her handiwork.

Not bad. But enough for now.

She turned to the window and saw then that the light outside was beginning to streak through and so got up creakily to switch on the coffee maker. She'd filled it the night before with the still-ample supply provided by Lane and Rory.

She'd become alarmingly organized lately.

She leaned over the maker then and rested her forehead on the cupboard above and breathed deep of the acrid warmth, then immediately pursed her lips tightly at the beginnings of a familiar twinge in her lower abdomen.

Damn.

It was the twentieth, she remembered then. Right on time.

At this time of her life menstruation was no longer what it had been in her twenties. Now, in her pre-menopausal years (she sighed inwardly at this) things worked differently. No longer the drama of a young woman's monthly, but still no frickin' fun.

She grabbed the pink mug from the counter then, and deftly substituted it for the glass coffee pot under the heavy brown flow that was her life's blood and smiled slightly. She could still pull off this move without losing a drop.

_Three points for me!_

When the mug was full she swiftly replaced the pot just as nimbly and went upstairs.

While in the shower, she remembered how she'd stood in the same spot all those years ago, Rory in her arms, praying that the steam would open up her lungs and the wheezing would stop.

By six, she walked into the bustle of breakfast prep at The Dragonfly.

"Hey, sweetie!' smiled Sookie from the crepe pan.

"Hey."

"Oh, didn't you get any sleep last night either?"

"Do I look that bad?"

"No!"

"I've got that greenish thing under my eyes again, haven't I?"

"No!... Well, maybe just a little."

"I know, I know."

"How about some breakfast?"

"Maybe later."

"Are you okay, hun?"

Lorelai could only look at her on this then shrug, "It's the twentieth."

"Oh, right," smiled Sookie sympathetically as Lorelai turned to go out the swinging door to the front desk.

Later, as she stood at the back of the dining room watching Sunday Brunch bubble on, the cramping below opening and closing within her like a fist, she remembered how standing in the steamy shower with eight year old Rory had not made the wheezing go away at all.

And that had scared them both to tears, which of course made breathing damn near impossible for the little girl.

"Michel," she signaled him over, "I need to go sit down in the office for a bit. Can you handle things out here for awhile, please?"

"Only by summoning forth my considerable powers of concentration and fortitude."

"That's my little buckaroo!"

After an hour in the office, Lorelai found that the ledger columns on the computer were neither lining up nor adding up as they should.

Double-dog dammit.

More importantly, her mug of coffee was stone cold.

As was she.

She crossed her arms before her on the desk and lay her head down for a minute then. Just to rest her eyes. She felt certain that when she opened them again, the columns would magically sort themselves out, she would be warm, and have the renewed vigor necessary to make it to the kitchen for a fresh mug of the blessed 'joe'...

She dreamt then in that way that happens sometimes when you're neither completely awake nor asleep, and therefore perfectly aware that _you are dreaming, _but unable to move or do anything about it.

This had been happening to Lorelai a lot lately.

In her dream, Luke was at her front door with a big orange bowl of steamy hot mashed potatoes. Commercial-perfect with a little square melting butter pat 'just so' on top.

'_I put broth in so she'd get some protein. She needs to keep up her strength.' _he'd said, and then, _'How's she doing?_'

She sighed and smiled her thank you in this dream before telling him the truth, '_She's twelve and has Chicken Pox and therefore convinced she'll never be beautiful or wanted again._'

'_Poor little thing,' _Luke had said with uncharacteristic tenderness then, _'Poor little thing.'_

He smiled softly at her,and here was the strangest part of the dream_, kissed _her sweetly before turning to leave.

When she woke to Sookie's shaking hand on her shoulder, she ached for the memory of it.

"Lorelai, you're not looking too well. I think you better go home."

Hand palmed over her belly, she moaned as she stood to leave, not bothering to argue.

In the jeep on the way home, she thought back then to that dark Pneumonia Night, or near-dawn really, and how she'd bundled them both quickly up, after turning off the shower in its uselessness, and had carried her great big eight year old baby down to the car, turned over the engine, and headed to the hospital.

Stopped at the traffic light in front of Luke's today, she did not automatically crane her neck to catch a glimpse of him before heading home as she usually did. Instead, after a moment's thought, and once the light had changed, turned the other way and went toward the highway for Hartford.

As she drove with one hand and pressed down upon the uterine contractions with the other, she thought about Rory and how sweet she'd been to her the previous week as she lay in the depths of wallow.

It had been then that the quiet realization had initially taken hold. For the first time ever, it was not the comfort of her beautiful daughter that she required, but that of her best friend.

And the man that she loved.

_I love him_, she thought then.

And the warmth and salt flowed out and down to her lips where she could not only taste the tears but was also powerless to stem them.

_She loved him._

And it was right and good that her daughter should go back to Yale and books and hormonal boys and leave her behind. Because children must leave. Even Rory.

_And, she loved him._

She hadn't known that one day she must face all of this. Certainly not back when she'd crashed through the Emergency Room doors on Pneumonia Night. Hadn't known that breaking your heart to keep a child alive culminated years later in the day of letting go that must surely come to all parents.

In fact, for her, now had.

It was probably a good thing she hadn't thought about that back then. It would have been just too much.

But today, now, and last Sunday on her bed too, she knew that it was right. And that her heart must now be shared between her grown daughter, who even now was creating her own world, and in her own daily-living way, with this man she loved.

A man who now needed to be away from her.

Life is just a big god-dammed thing sometimes.

She swung into a parking structure then and removed her hand from her abdomen long enough to pull up the handbrake and, moments later, was exiting an elevator onto the fourth floor of a tall limestone building.

"I don't have an appointment," she began, "but I really need to see someone..."

The woman at the desk nodded.

"Sign in. Let me see what I can do."

And, of course, it was as she suspected.

Even though she didn't really _expect_ to get what she suspected, she did.

Another of those god-dammed funny things.

After the urine and blood, and the being cranked open in the familiar cold-handed way, there'd been the waiting in the world's most unflattering dress, in the world's most unflattering light, only to be told what she already knew.

"It's much too early in the process to even term it a 'miscarriage' really, Lorelai."

Her brain furrowed through the files of alternate names she liked to keep on hand for things but drew a blank for what would be just right for a non-miscarriage miscarriage.

"It is only nature's way of remedying a situation that needs to be fixed."

She thought then of being in the Emergency Room with Rory long ago. They'd put a face mask on her attached by a long tube to a nebulizer so she could breathe in the necessary medicine to get her lungs clear.

"This has been happening to women for generations. Particularly of your age."

She winced but went on in her mind to see the relief in Rory's eyes when she could finally breathe comfortably again. Her big saucer pupils staring into those of her mother over the clear plastic mask.

"It probably happens far more often than is realized, actually. Most women just assume they are having an especially heavy period, when in fact it is something more. But hormonal testing being so sensitive now, we are able to discern the truth. I don't know if that's really for the best, by the way."

She nodded at that, trying not to think of the poor women who never knew.

"Have you been careful with your birth control?"

The medical bill on Pneumonia Night had come to fifteen hundred dollars, she remembered then. She'd pawned the diamond earrings her parents had given her for her sixteenth birthday to pay off the credit card bill when it came in.

Years later, she'd spied the same ones on QVC late one night. Only Cubic Zirconias but she'd been wearing them ever since.

It pleased her to no end that her mother didn't know the difference.

"_Lorelai?_"

"What?"

"Birth control? Careful?"

"Yes, very careful. Fort Knox careful."

"Well, your body is probably changing and we should put you on a different pill with a higher level of hormones then. Accidents like this are rare but can happen."

"Okay."

"I've got a sample painkiller here for you as well to make you more comfortable as you ride this out. Call me if you need more."

"I–I just _ride_ it out?"

"It's perfectly natural, Lorelai. But I'll want to see you next week for a check up, if things haven't gone as they should, we might consider a DNC."

In the jeep on the way back home, she thought about the article she'd read in the newspaper the other day. Half of all bankruptcies that happen to families are because of overwhelming medical bills. Not everyone has diamond earrings she guessed.

Again, in her mind's eye, she saw the relief in Rory's eyes that night when she could finally breathe again.

And realized that she hadn't really breathed in a long time herself.

Hadn't really felt like there was enough oxygen in her heart to keep her going at all.

She felt another painful internal squeeze.

Maybe that was why all this had happened.

Not enough air.

It was something like that, anyway.

Must be.

Half an hour later she stopped deliberately in front of the diner, got out, walked in, and sat at the counter.

It was dark out and well past dinnertime. The place was empty.

Until he came through the curtain.

His eyes widened, "Hey."

"Hello," she said. "Could I have an extra large order of mashed potatoes with butter, please?"

"Um, sure."

He hesitated only slightly before moving into the kitchen.

For long moments only the clanking of a pot or two. Then the opening whoosh of the refrigerator door. The bang of an oven's maybe too.

"Here you go," he said returning, and setting the steaming bowl before her.

"Could I have a cup of coffee too, please?"

"Of course."

He turned to fill a mug as she dipped her spoon into the creamy richness of the potatoes and then slipped it into her mouth.

She closed her eyes and felt the coolness of the spoon against her tongue and the warmth of the potatoes that filled her mouth, and remembered how happy Rory had been to have them to eat when she'd had Chicken Pox.

She'd been right. Mashed potatoes did help a little.

When she'd swallowed and opened her eyes again, she found him staring at her, the mug suspended in his hand in the air between them.

"Luke?"

"Yeah?"

"Coffee?"

"Right."

He set it down in front of her and moved to the end of the counter to sort receipts.

Lorelai slipped her hand into her pocket and felt the foiled painkiller sample then, but somehow couldn't bring herself to numb the pain, after all. She went instead back to the mashed potatoes in silence.

When she finished, she took out her wallet and set the requisite bills next to her bowl and prepared to leave.

She'd go back to her sewing when got home for awhile if she felt up to it, she decided. There were two long seams to finish and she surely did not want to lay awake still-alone and with her only her damn brain and all the thinking it was surely gearing up to do. The thinking leading to tears, the tears to wallow, and the so forth and so on into the inevitable.

She sighed audibly at yet another spasm as she got up to go.

"You okay?" he looked up in concern.

"Thank you for the mashed potatoes." She tried to smile.

He nodded a 'you're welcome' down the long counter at her as she finally turned to leave.

"_Lorelai_..." he called then before she could go.

She turned back.

"Yes?"

But he seemed to change his mind.

"Nothing. Have a good night."

He shifted his eyes down, then up at her again.

She noticed.

"Are you sure it's nothing?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

She turned away yet again.

"I mean, no."

And back.

"Okay."

Her womb was throbbing now.

"I mean, _not _nothing," he went on uncertainly, "_Something, _in fact... I mean, as opposed to the nothing I just said before. Turns out there is... _something,_ after all..."

She nodded and waited for him then...

Remembering to carefully take in all the air that she could.

"Would you like to come upstairs and talk... or something?"


	15. Food

5.15. _Jews and Chinese Food _addition. The second cast party after the show.

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He leaned back into the upholstered bench and looked over at them again through hooded eyes.

Stupid idea coming here tonight, he kicked himself.

He lifted his heavy frosted mug and drained the last of the draft and then set the empty glass down to join its three companions on the table in front of him.

He heard her laugh ring out then and gloated a little over it.

He knew that laugh. He knew all her laughs.

The uncomfortable one that punctuated a babble. The 'I'm-just-being-polite' laugh. The derisive snort when they fought. The deep belly giggle at something stupid on TV. The delighted. The naughty.

It was the second in that line up he was hearing now, he felt pretty sure.

He lifted his finger to the waiter to signal another beer.

He should go home. But was too riveted by the scene before him.

Lorelai, on the bench across the small room that was the bar at Antonelli's, and the show's piano player, so hot for her he's sweating a little, sitting next to her. Luke can see how really hard he's trying.

He probably _is_ really hard, poor schmuck, he snorts to himself.

For her part, he sees that she's trying to be polite because Piano-Guy is clearly drunk and relatively harmless at the same time.

He's not willing to admit right now that he's also a nice guy.

He watches her lift her martini to her lips then and feels rather than sees her sadly flick her eyes over to him.

Piano-Guy isn't gonna get none tonight, he knows. Poor clueless bastard.

Not that he wants him getting any with Lorelai. He sure-the-hell doesn't. He should go over there and punch him right now to show him that. Knock his lights out.

But knows he's got no right. Not anymore. He can't go over and hit a piano player who wears glasses just because he obviously wants Lorelai so badly.

Fuck, he wants her too.

It's not an easy adjustment, the going from sex several times a week to cold turkey for two. Not easy at all.

He watches as she lifts her chin to the ceiling then in her Delighted Laugh at some joke, exposing her long white throat.

And he wants it.

To be there. Licking it. Sucking her earlobe in. Marking her as his.

_Jeez_, he snorts to himself, he's becoming a neanderthal, and tries to look away.

Two weeks from whipped to neanderthal.

He swallows. Hard. And looks over again as another laugh from her knots him up deep inside.

_God, he misses her so much._

He takes a deep draught of the just-arrived fresh beer then and continues to watch as music begins beating hypnotically in the background.

He could almost be sorry for the Piano-Guy (Piano-Prick?) as he watched him, yet again, lay a smooth, white, long-fingered hand on Lorelai's thigh, rubbing it slightly up her jeans.

Luke bristles and changes his mind. No, he's not sorry for him at all.

He knows Piano-Guy wants to put his hand much higher.

Knows that he wants her to moan for him.

So, Luke almost laughs out loud when Lorelai smilingly chastises the guy, lifts his hand off her thigh, and puts in back on the table.

Damn straight, he nods to himself.

The music picks up then, and a few people go to the small dance floor in the corner and start to do what can only be described as gyrate. Piano-Guy whispers something into Lorelai's ear, she smiles and nods, and they get up and head over.

Figures the asshole can dance.

And suddenly Luke is back at some high school dance where he sees the line-up of pretty girls. Girls that smell so good it could knock you to your knees. Their skin glistening under spaghetti straps. But there is no way in hell he can make his body move across the gym floor to ask one to dance. And when one got up the nerve to ask him, he could only bark 'No thanks!' and retreat behind a stony face.

He can't dance. Not like that.

But that doesn't mean he didn't want to hold one of those girls that smelled so good.

He watches Lorelai begin to move to the music. She is smiling, but he'd seen the little lines around her eyes earlier.

Good, he thinks nastily.

He should have hit Piano-Guy before they went over to dance, he decides then. Should have walked over and decked him and told him to keep his goddam hands off of her.

_She's mine._

Ah, shit...

_was_ mine.

He takes another drink and reminds himself for the millionth time that they are broken up. That this is a civilized world. That she can dance with the guy if she wants too. That she can handle herself too, if need be...

_Dirty!_ he smirks into another drink, then sighs as he remembers that going solo is all he has to look forward to for quite awhile now.

"Well, well, well..." he hears the purr, feels the depression in the cushion next to him, and smells the heavy perfume all at once.

"Hello, Carrie," he says without looking at her.

"What are you doing here all by yourself, handsome?"

She leans on her arm over the table and stares up at him with huge lined eyes.

He looks down at her and then back up at Lorelai dancing with Piano-Guy just over her right shoulder.

"Drinking beer," he tells her.

He's too plastered to bother about her. Too horny for Lorelai as she wiggles her hips on the floor.

Carrie laughs at him, "So, nice cast party."

"Which one?"

"Well, I think this one for the grown ups was a good idea. There just comes a time when you have to send the kids home, let your hair down, and _be adult_. You know what I mean, Luke?"

"If you say so."

"Oh, I do."

He almost jumps out of his skin then as he feels her hand creep up his thigh.

"Dammit, Carrie!" he growls and pushes it away.

She just laughs and lifts her hands in mock surrender.

"There aren't any kids here now, Luke."

She lifts her elaborate drink from the table. It is tall and a suspicious acid green color.

"So," she goes on undaunted, "It was so sweet of you to provide sandwiches for the kid's party earlier, Luke."

"Yeah, well, they needed something decent. All they eat is processed crap all the time."

Carrie laughs like this is the funniest thing she's ever heard.

Luke feels the music downshift and watches as Lorelai and Piano-Guy move into the semi-embrace of a slower dance.

Go home, Danes, he tells himself. Go home.

Carrie follows his line of vision as she takes another sip of the green concoction and then leans back on the bench, her shoulder rubbing up against his.

"We're not all like her, you know, Luke."

He's thinking then, again, about hitting, or better yet, killing, Piano-Guy.

"Some of us are more... realistic," Carrie goes on.

His mind goes on in this fantasy; After killing Piano-Guy, he grabs Lorelai by the hand and they run to the diner.

"Take me, for instance, I accept the realities of men."

They furiously peel off clothes as they climb the stairs to his apartment.

"Women like Lorelai have no sense of reality."

He's pushing her on the bed now, parting her thighs, kissing hungrily down them... And she wants him, he smiles. He can tell, she _wants_ him...

"_Luke!_"

"What?"

"I was telling you that some women in this world understand men like you. Appreciate them, even."

"They do, hunh..."

_Go away_, he thinks at Crazy Carrie. Go away and let me at least think about her alone.. Think about her saying, _'I want you, Luke... I want you!' _

"Women like Lorelai can't just be grateful for the sex."

He looks over at Carrie a bit startled then.

"It's true," she goes on, "They need the emotion, too. They feed on it. They need you to talk and tell you what's going on inside. Blah, blah, blah..."

She giggles and opens and shuts her hand like a talking puppet.

"Blah, blah, blah. They want _relationships_, Luke. See, the sex is up here on one level," she shows him with her hands, "But _the communication _is on the deeper. It's crap, but it's true. It's like food to them, these women. And I'm here to tell you it's a Goddam Fairy Tale!"

She shouts this last phrase gleefully, causing a few to swivel their heads and laugh, but he is too caught by what she has said.

He blinks and tries to wrap his mind around it, and then turns slightly in to her.

"What?" he asks stupidly because he really wants to know.

Carrie, aroused by his attention, slurs airily on, "They're_ parasites_, Luke. Women like Lorelai. Hungry for talking. Not just their own words, but the man's too. They need to hear what they mean to a guy to get off, to commit. They get turned on being inside your head, which they think is your heart, and it's a load of crap, because you and I know the only thing going on in there is the plotting to get into the pants of every woman within sniffing distance."

Luke is frozen by this thought.

"Not me though, honey. You see, _I understand_. I know how to appreciate the strong silent type," she placed her hand on his thigh and leaned in deeply to him again, "I don't care what you say to me, sweetheart. Or what you feel. I'm not hungry for words. I just need someone to, you know, _keep up_."

She laughed into his horrified face then.

And leaned in even deeper, "Come on, Luke, you're a big boy, and clearly not the marrying kind. We could come to understand each other," she whispered throatily, "Screw love and then _screw _me, baby!"

He stands up then, shaken to his core, digs into his pocket, throws money on the table, and leaves without looking back.

"Luuuuuke!" he hears her wail.

The bar door swings closed behind him.

He pushes his hands deep into his pockets, bends into a powerful walk across the square and breaths deep into the cold night air. Over and over. In and Out. Getting his lungs clean. Getting his heart clean.

He walks and walks. Fast and hard.

He is old. It is almost too late for him.

_It is _too late with Lorelai.

Isn't it?

He stops cold in his tracks, rubs his hand under his hat, and then starts walking again.

What should he do now?

He can build things, he knows that. He can coax Lorelai into screaming his name in passion. He can cook. He can buy her a rink. He can rant.

But he can't dance fast.

And he can't _talk_.

That stupid book had told him how to get her. How to show her he wanted her. But it hadn't said anything about how to talk to her afterwards.

Not in the way that was clearly needed.

Had his parents ever _talked_, he wondered then.

Did his dad ever say the things from his heart that a woman worth having needs to hear? The words that make it all mean more. The words that change lovers into a family.

What are those words, anyway?

He doesn't know, of course.

And now he's forty...

_And he's never told anyone that he loves them._

Shit.

Is there a book for that?

He sighed and stopped again, staring down at the ground, and realized, right there and then, by the gazebo, in his work boots...

_I love her._

That's what all this must mean.

Right?

He begins moving again.

_I love her._

This hunger for her, this needing her, this knowing of her laughs, the longing for the smell of her body, the cringing for her when he sees her eating little waxy candle-like things at a kid's party that Damon has assured him are 'fruit snacks', but have no actual fruit in them, goddam it.

_I love her. _

And he feels it as a truth then. A terrifying truth.

Down deep in his groin in a primal way.

It terrifies him, but all he can think about is how he wants to protect her and wrap his fingers around her delicate ribcage at night as they sleep. How he wants to feed her. Cook healthful things for her...

And... and satisfy her heart.

He sighed deeply then, letting the air in his lungs go, raking a hand over his face.

It's too late now, old man, he thinksand then feels he might actually cry.

Shit.

She'll only go on. Find someone who can talk _and _dance fast.

That'll bethat.

Right?

He looked up then and saw that he was in front of the diner now...

He was hollow and cold...

And really feeling the beer...

Should have had a sandwich earlier...

So, silently, he went in, locking the door behind him.


	16. Talk

5.16 _So...Good Talk_ addition. Right after the door closes on the kiss.

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She pulled her lips away, trying to breath, then rested her forehead against his.

"Luke?"

"I'm sorry," he let out, soft and throaty, breathing pretty hard himself.

"_I'm_ sorry," she whispered back.

Eyes closed, they leaned in to one another in this way.

She, feeling the cold outdoors in his old green coat. (It still smelled of mothballs, she smiled). He himself, of coffee and cooking and something else that was spicy and just him.

She breathed it in and felt her nipples rise to peaks. _God_, she thought and felt. Just, _God._..

For his part, he felt her warmth and the firm curves under the smooth knit of her clothing and then moaned as she moved into the crook of his neck, lightly, briefly, bathing it with her tongue first before settling in.

"Luke... W-what are you doing here...?"

"Shhh..." he admonished, needing more of the moment.

More of the beating within wrapped in the quiet without.

He tightened his arms around her.

"Okay," she whispered. and sighed, causing him to shiver at her slight puff of air along his collarbone.

And with that, they began to move.

Her hands lifted to the zipper of his coat, as his hands slid up under the back of her sweater, tracing circles, kneading at the muscles.

She started and laughed, "Cold hands!"

"Warm heart," he growled, diving into her neck and pushing his thigh between her legs.

Coats and shirts and sweaters peeled away, boots toed off, and somehow they found themselves moving to the staircase in very little more than underwear and gooseflesh, their warm moist tongues driving them upward.

"Want you," Luke murmured into her hair as she wrapped her arms around his neck and backed up another stair or two.

"I'm yours," she smiled as he bent to kiss down between her breasts to her stomach, hooking his finger into the black lace there.

"Oh, God, Luke," she moaned and leaned over to kiss down his back; each mole, each blemish, all of him. Every bit. She wanted every bit.

"I missed you," she panted as they finally moved into her room.

"Back atcha," he growled and backed her onto the bed.

She toppled down onto her back and laughed up into his darkened eyes as he stood above her.

And then sobered as he put his hands up to lower his boxers.

But it was too fast. Even her fevered brain knew that.

"Luke, wait..."

He looked up quickly, the question, the irritation, in his eyes.

"What?"

"We need to talk."

"_What?_" he felt stupid and thick and could only seem to focus on the dampness of the black lace between her legs.

"Now?"

"Yes."

She sat up quietly and climbed out of bed, tossing him an old left behind t-shirt from a chair, then turning her back to him to put on her robe.

She turned back to him and smiled wryly.

"Sorry, I got carried away," she told him. "You're pretty hard to resist, Mister," she added lamely, trying to soften the moment.

He blinked and nodded then pulled the t-shirt over his head.

She looked away then placed her hands on her hips and took a deep breath before looking back.

Faraway downstairs, she could hear Judy Garland warbling, _"I was born in a trunk at the Princess Theater..."_ She pictured her dressed as a hobo, sitting at the very edge of the stage.

And suddenly she was nervous.

"D-do you want to sit down?" she asked.

He sighed and nodded and perched on the side of her bed as she walked to the night stand and switched on a lamp.

He blinked and looked about, willing the blood to flow back into his brain.

"Your room looks nice."

"I've had some time on my hands, been cleaning," she told him and sat carefully down beside him, though not close enough to touch.

He nodded and leaned in to put his arms on his knees.

She turned a bit into him then.

"Luke, why are you here?"

He took a deep breath then flicked his eyes slightly to look at her by his side.

"I missed you."

"I missed you too," she warmed and then waited for him to speak again.

He looked down at his hands now clasped between his knees.

"It was a mistake. Breaking up was a mistake."

"Okay."

He realized then that he had put the t-shirt on backwards and wondered briefly when it was exactly that he'd left it behind. And came up empty on that one. He'd slept over many nights in Lorelai's springy bed. Before it had all gone wrong.

"_Luke?"_

"What?" he looked over at her.

"What are you thinking?"

He didn't know. What the hell _was_ he thinking, anyway?

"That I want to be with you."

He decided on the truth that rested deep in the core of his lower brain.

"You want to be with me?" she repeated.

"Yes."

"Just like that?"

"Don't you want me?" he turned and asked in surprise.

"I don't know if that's the issue," she replied sadly.

"It is," he insisted, suddenly alert, "_It is _the issue. She said you wanted me. I knew if she said it, when she sure as hell didn't want it to be true, that it had to be. True, that is. That you want me."

_Oh, crap._

Lorelai' eyes had slit flinty and cold.

"When _who_ said that, Luke?"

_Oh, fuck._

He sighed. "Your mother."

"My mother?"

"Yes, your mother. Emily came to the diner."

Lorelai got up from the bed and walked to look out the window, wrapping her arms around herself. He watched as she breathed in her anger. Her mother. Her _damn_ mother.

Her back still to him, she could only simply ask the obvious question, "What exactly did she say?"

Alarmed by her quiet tone, Luke got up and took a few paces toward her.

"Nothing, really, Lorelai. I mean, _not nothing_. But, she said that you had made your choice. And that it was me. That I had... won," he winced inwardly at the words.

Lorelai wheeled at this, hands on her hips, "That you had _won!_ What the hell does that mean! You are here because _you won_? _What _exactly did you win?"

_Shit, shit, shit_.

"No... that's not it. You don't understand."

"Then what? Explain it, please. Because, last time I checked you had taken your money and left the table, my friend."

"I missed you. I wanted you," this was not going the way it was supposed to.

"But it took my mother to get you here?"

"You're taking this the wrong way!"

"Gah! I cannot fucking believe this!"

"Lorelai, what the hell does it matter how we get back together as long as we do get back together?"

"It matters!" she yelled.

"Lorelai..."

"Answer me this, Luke; Were you planning on coming over here on your own anytime soon?"

"I don't know," he answered honestly.

"Well, that's just great," she bit acidly.

"Were you going to come to me?"

"You broke up with me! I've been respecting what you wanted."

"Well, what I wanted has changed!"

"Well, Luke, that's just swell. Can you tell me, please, what exactly it is that you _do_ want?"

"What?" he blinked.

"It's a simple question," she crossed her arms and asked again in the most reasonable tone she could summon, "What do you want?"

"I want you," he returned.

"Well, that's not good enough!"

"What do you mean that's not good enough?"

"Luke, have you done any thinking, any reflecting about us at all, or have you just been burning food and walking the delicate line to assault and battery charges for three weeks?"

Luke blinked again.

"Just what I thought," nodded Lorelai, suddenly deflated.

And a moment stretched long between them.

"Lorelai, what do you want?" he finally asked, feeling pretty defeated himself.

"It doesn't matter because clearly we don't want the same thing."

"How do you know that?"

She looked at him aghast. _How could he not understand?_

"What? Do you need me to spell this out? Luke, you seriously cannot be that dumb!"

Luke stared at her at moment, trying to figure it out.

"I think I may be," he finally allowed in quiet defeat, and then slumped a little.

Lorelai stared back at this.

And then her lips began to twitch a little.

Until a bemused smile bloomed a little around the edges.

"Oh, my God. I think you're right. I think you _are_ just that dumb."

Luke flinched microscopically, then straightened up, looked at her, and spoke from his heart, "I don't want to lose you again, Lorelai. Just tell me what to say. Just tell me what to do."

Lorelai sighed and took a step closer.

"Luke, sweetie, I can't tell you what to say or do."

"So, it's too late and that's it?"

She could see the desperation in his eyes.

She shook her head, "Too late? I don't know. I hope it's possible for you, Luke Danes, even at forty, to figure out what your heart really wants and to then find away to say it. But, I can't do it for you, Luke. I can't."

He tried again.

"Lorelai..."it began tentatively.

"What?" she gently urged.

"What do you want? Maybe if I knew that, it would help."

Lorelai sighed and studied him a moment. He was clearly sincere.

And so she made a decision because there comes a point when you just have to.

Where you have to acknowledge that this is how real life works. You have to meet in the middle. Even when that means giving something up. This negotiation for love is something everyone must face at one point or another. For some it came at the beginning, for others later on. But giving up the fantasy must eventually come to all. It's the only way to let the reality in.

And she wanted reality.

She lifted her chin and met his eyes.

"Luke, I realized after you broke up with me that I love you," she ignored the widening of his eyes and went on, "That is the sad truth. What's even sadder is that once I realized that, I had to try to figure out how to let it go."

They looked at one another over this.

"How's that going?" he asked quietly, really wanting to know.

She smiled ruefully, "Not very well."

He nodded, trying not to let his relief show.

"When you came to the door and kissed me tonight, I thought... I mean, _I hoped_..."

"Lorelai, all along I've tried to let my actions speak..."

"I know that, Luke. I know that. I do. But there comes a time when we have to say the actual words too, honey. If it's too hard to say the words... If we can't consider the future together... If we can't just grow-the-fuck-up and admit we're scared but say the words anyway, then there's no point."

"Just say the words?" he checked as he digested this concept.

"Say them. Mean them. Act on them. It's all the same, Luke. And it can't be because my mother said it's okay. Or because I've confronted you. It has to come from you. I'm almost forty years old, Luke. Cats have visited me regularly. Miss Patty had drugstore dot com FedEx me a state-of-the art vibrator last week," she breathed in, willing the tears back into their sockets, anda laugh away at the same time, "At this point I'm not settling for anything less than the fucking words themselves, pal!"

"Lorelai... I don't know..."

"Go home, Luke. Think about it."

"But..."

"Now," she implored. "Go home before I lose every ounce of self respect I ever had and beg you to stay. Women in love do that sort of thing all the time."

"Lorelai, please, you're making this into something that..."

"Please, _please_, go home, Luke."

She turned back to the window then, wrapping her arms tightly around herself again, biting the inside of her lip to keep the sobs from escaping, until she heard the door click closed behind her.

Then she leaned her forehead against the cool glass and let the anguish out.

"Lorelai, _don't._"

His words jolted her as she felt his hands on her waist.

She turned in surprise to see him, still there, a decision in his eyes even as his hands gripped hold of her.

"I love you, Lorelai Gilmore," he breathed out evenly, and met her gaze too.

Looking closely, she see the fear in his rounded pupils.

"Y-you do?" she whispered, not trusting it.

He nodded, becoming more sure with the relief of having said it, "I do."

And another moment held its breath as they let this sink in.

"S-so what happens now?" she asked, her own fear growing even as his diminished.

"Well, I hope to God, we get to have sex at some point soon," he smiled in a small way.

"That sounds good," she nodded shakily.

"And I need you to know that this isn't because of your mother."

"Okay," she was buying it. God help her, she really was.

_Who the hell cared about the why anymore, anyway?_

"I've been..." he paused and wracked for the word.

"Scared?" she offered.

He shifted his eyes away, unwilling to admit it.

"Confused," he countered when he looked back.

Okay, she'd buy that too.

"B-but you love me?" she checked

"Go help me, but I do. More than anything."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, Lorelai, I'm sure," he smiled again.

"Well, good. Just checking... And, I love you too," she said and laughed awkwardly as his smile widened before adding, "But, I told you that already, didn't I?

"I don't think something like that can be said enough."

"Right. So... we're good?"

"Not yet," he told her seriously.

"What? Why?" she looked up in alarm.

"We're not finished."

"Hunh?"

"I just told you I loved you," he stated as though this made things clear.

"Yes..." she looked around in confusion. "I did say it back," she reminded him.

"What kind of man do you think I am?" he demanded.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not sleeping with you until you agree to marry me."

"_W-what!"_

"You heard me."

"B-but..."

"Well?"

"Just like that?"

"As far as I'm concerned, yes."

"Really?"

"Yes. I love you. I want to marry you. All in."

"All in?" she repeated weakly.

"Yes. I need an answer, please."

She wondered for one brief and evil second if she should make him give her time to think about it.

_Nope._

"Then... Yes. I think. No, definitely. Oh, my God. I can't believe I'm saying this, but, _yes._"

"Good."

"So, we're getting married?"

"Unless you chicken out on me."

"Me chicken out _on you?_"

"There's precedent."

"You realize my mother is going to think this is all her doing."

"Frankly, I don't give a rat's ass if she does."


	17. Friction

5.17 _Pulp Friction_ episode addition. Some years later. Fluff free. Now Complete.

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**_One_**

It was raining.

Rory could see the heavy sheets of it coming down as she looked out through the thick plate glass window of the silver-webbed high rise. The seventeenth floor. Not that she was at all damp. Far from it. With a doubly-confirmed interview appointment, she'd sailed right into the parking garage and then gone straight up the elevator. Dry as a bone.

Sitting now, waiting for him, she twitched slightly in her leather seat.

Just the short walk from said elevator to this specific office suite had revealed right away that her shoes were all wrong. Too delicate for the sophistication of this office. And her bag. Wrong too. Although pricey (a gift from Emily), the proportions were wrong for the uber professional woman she hoped to become.

She sighed. Oh, well. Nevermind.

She was well aware that this interview, _her_ interview, with Mitchum Huntzberger (_The_ Mitchum Huntzberger) was only a formality.

The job was a cinch.

There'd be time to research and edit her clothing faux pas later.

It hadn't really been until the last few weeks before graduation that she'd begun to clearly grasp the magnitude of the privilege that was hers.

Before that she'd only thought of herself as lucky.

Fortunate.

Or, as One Who Worked Hard for what she got.

She'd been naive in this regard. Most people are, though it would be years before she'd figure that out.

And, she _had been _lucky, fortunate, and a hard worker too, of course. No one gets any where without these.

But it had taken four years of Yale: The sorting out of _The Academy_, of _Hormones and Guys_, of negotiating _Self Respect _(then renegotiating it all over again)to really come to the understanding of _The Privilege _she hadAnd that her mother had given up.

It wasn't about the money (though she'd been given that freely as one watered a beloved antique rose.)

It wasn't about always having a car to drive.

Or lovely frocks to wear (she knew, after all, that Lane didn't wear a four hundred dollar dress to a Friday night family dinner), or exclusive parties and clubs to wear them to.

It was about _The Privilege_.

The privilege that came of having a certain last name.

And how that drew the attention of certain others with other certain last names. And how those with those other certain last names also happened to have extremely important fathers who had it within the power of a mere lifted brow to make all your dreams come true. To consider you. To interview you for, then naturally bestow upon you too (one would progress from the other), the job you covet most in the world, only a day after graduating with a BA in English from Yale.

Thinking about The Privilege made her squirm in her seat again. Well, that and the job interview before her now.

Of course, she's qualified, she thinks (The_ most _qualified? her conscience pricks. Well, no.)

Of course, she's got the right education (_Fully_ taken advantage of? Ah, no. But close.)

And of course, she's worked hard (Harder than Paris? Than Doyle? _Crap_.)

She sighed and had to acknowledge The Privilege again. The certain last name privilege that had her sitting in Mitchum Huntzberger's office right now. The knowledge that she can comfortably call him Mitchum when he comes in (they've met socially which is where such things usually begin.) The knowledge that he was to play golf with her grandfather on Saturday.

It was enough.

Because of The Privilege she knows too that he will only glance cursorily at her resume when he comes in to join her.

Though many sharper and much more well-rounded resumes than hers, even now, sit it an enormous pile in an obscure office, next to a bathroom, seven floors below.

She looked at the Louis XV clock on the mahogany desk before her then. It ticked loudly at her as she thought, This is where having privilege can land you. Seven floors above those resumes sadly lacking certain last names.

She's not stupid. She's not going to turn down this shot _because_ of her certain last name. She's not that noble. But she does have a conscience (and enough Stars' Hollow within) to hate the knowledge that Class Matters.

She re-crossed her legs then, switching the right one to the top.

This had been the formula: Money and Hard Work got her to Chilton.

Money, Hard Work, and Her Grandfather (and his father before him) got her to Yale.

And now, Money, Hard Work, Her Grandfather, and The Privilege of a certain last name were going to land her the career of her dreams within the Huntzberger publishing family.

All this had brought her to this point today. Sitting in an office right smack in the middle of the most expensive real estate in the world, wearing the wrong shoes, carrying the wrong bag (knowing that it won't matter), and waiting for her real life (the adult one) to begin.

It had been like this for people (well, men) like her for generations she knows.

All this had led her here today. To this seminal point in her life.

Well, all this and her mother, of course.

Oh, and the letters.

**_Two_**

When Lorelai isn't feeling well (like now, though she won't admit it) and drifts off to sleep, she sometimes, even to this day, will wake with a start. The scent of Chanel Number 5 heavy in her nose. It is an evening perfume. Emily schooled her well in that. Much too heavy for the day.

In her dreams (and again, only when she is sick) Emily sails back and forth before her open bedroom door issuing orders to the staff before going out, as the Chanel wafts in. Lorelai is sitting in her bed as the nanny (she cannot remember which one) tries to feed her soup. Her nose is fine. It's her ears and head that throb with an intensity that bring tears to her eyes. The perfume smell makes the soup taste funny. She knows this on one level, but is unable to convey it so that anyone will believe her. They think she is willful.

She only wants a peanut butter sandwich. And her mother.

But listens as Emily's heels click down the stairs until the thud of the front door seals off all visual and auditory evidence that her mother had been there just a moment before.

The Chanel, however, remains.

She's lying in bed now, thirty odd years later, the dream only something she is aware of feeling at this point, and not something she can specifically remember in a detailed way, and longs for Luke to come home.

She wants to be held and knows this is silly.

He was right there holding her hand all through the chemotherapy that morning. Overcoming his revulsion with Herculean effort. She cannot call him back from his only few hours at work just to hold her now because she _wants_ it. She has no excuse. She hasn't thrown up this time, she isn't having an especially bad reaction today, she is just tired of it. It's the Chanel in the sick dream that's bothering her really. And the wanting. And the not-having that are making her ache.

So, she turns her mind, by way of distraction, to her beautiful daughter and smiles in spite of herself. Thinking about her upcoming interview with Mitchum Huntzberger. She woulddazzle him with her brilliance and beauty, she had no doubt. How could anyone not see this in Rory? The way her quiet eyes took things in with empathy. The way she carefully weighed her life.

How could anyone miss seeing The Important Life she is meant to lead?

She wants it all for Rory. The Important Life. Real, rich, funny. Without the haunting of childhood to make her second guess herself. To trip her up. She could even openly be grateful for the Gilmore name and money for this. If they helped get Rory to The Important Life, so much the better for it. It was well and good that it could be used in this way for such a one as Rory. _She_, having always done the right thing by her mother and by life, was worth it.

Here in Stars' Hollow, where Lorelai's happily lived her refugee life, things turn more slowly. Not with the rapidity The Important Life would surely take on for her daughter. Which is an odd thing, because once you get past forty, life (just when you've got the knack of it, just when you come to a maturity of understanding) goes fast, fast, fast.

Capricious, she thinks. And, tricky.

Poor Luke, she thinks then, and probably for the millionth time in the past six months. So in love with her (heaven help him), yet for so long resistant to marriage. Well, he'd always been one for stewing (hee, _stewing_–he's a cook!)

She holds no blame for him on this though. Not now. Not then. Being in love finally and for all at forty meant that she could love him and take this on as well. It was after all,_ him_. And now, two years later, though the Chemo was practically a formality now (the surgery very successful and she even still has her hair) and her prognosis as ideal as it possibly could be, he, poor slob, had been vindicated in the most awful of ways.

It was as though his dread of formalizing their union foretold the cancer.

At least in his mind, she knew this to be true; 'Never make plans. Take what you have now. Appreciate it'. He'd watched too many brilliant women slip elusively away from him in his life. To cancer, to addiction, to wanderlust, to other men.

Making it real. Marrying Lorelai out loud and in public could tempt all that back to him again.

It was too risky.

So he clung tightly to her, but did not want a wedding.

They were married in their hearts. They both knew that. And once they could say this to one another without prevarication, it had been enough. In fact, it had filled her up. She slowed down, he smiled more. There was routine.

So, it was ironic that he showed up with a ring in hand the day after her diagnosis, filled with remorse. Thinking he'd cheated her out of something special. She'd laughed at him. She wasn't cheated out of a damn thing. She'd hit the jackpot with him, with their home, and now with the conquering of cancer too.

They'd be happily ever-aftering for a long, long time.

So, funny as it was, she was the one who now needed to squeeze his hand in a reassuring manner and promise him that as soon as the Chemo was over they'd go to the Courthouse and make it official.

So now there'd be that for them too.

And Rory would have The Important Life.

Win.Win.Win.

Right?

She rolled over in bed to try and rest some more, drowsy from the drugs drilled into her chest earlier that morning, and half sniffing the air for heavy evening perfume.

_**Three**_

Richard hadn't taken time to dig through the large manilla envelope of letters after he finally found it in the back of the filing cabinet. He couldn't be bothered with nostalgia right now thank you very much, what with the merger being moved to the front burner, so to speak.

He'd merely handed the packet over to Rory the following Friday evening, as requested. Though what kind of senior project would require them, he had no idea. In his day, a senior project required a great deal of library time and a well-thought out essay on a subject of great import.

But whatever Rory wanted, it was his cheerful duty to serve.

xxx

_November 5, 1926_

_My dearest Lorelai,_

_I miss you very much, my brave little girl. I want you to know that Mother has been very brave too. I have told you the stories of the good work of Miss Alice Paul and the others as we sought, and finally won, our right to vote. When you are a grown woman you will not think it extraordinary at all to go to the polls and pull the lever, thereby casting your power onto destiny itself. When that happens, dearest, I want you to remember that women before you, dear friends of your mother's in fact, died so this might happen. We stood in cold wet prisons and starved for our civil disobedience, but in the end prevailed, in our country and in England too._

_Always remember this, Lorelai, and preserve and cherish your independence accordingly._

_Today, I go to the old Settlement House in Brooklyn. There are children there without mothers today, Lorelai. Poor women who worked in a thread factory there, seventeen of them in all, died horribly when a fire began, the doors being locked to keep them at their work. I say women, though some were as young as ten years. There are twenty-three lonely orphans afresh today, my daughter. Surely you can spare your mother another month so that she might go and see how she might help them._

_I do not shield you any of this, Lorelai. I do not gild a portrait of what it is to be a woman or poor in our times. If I belittle the suffering only apathy will follow in future. Therefore, our duty is clear._

_The vote has been won, but there are other battles for women and children still to be fought. And as long as they must labor in factories for a fraction of the pittance men are paid. And as long as there is no safe and affordable accommodation for their children, we must strive to help._

_Be a good girl for Nonnie, sweetheart. I received your French conjugations yesterday and found them to be very well done. Next, I hope to hear glowing reports of the little etude you have been laboring on as well._

_I hope to see you before Christmas. Take care that Nonnie does not take you to the zoo again, the influenza is still dreadfully about._

_Your most loving Mother,_

_Victoria Gilmore. _

_**Four**_

She sighed a puffy cloud onto the cold window as she looked out upon the drifts.

When it snowed things were always at their worst.

She and her sister could not go outside to play in the garden, or visit friends, or go the library. It was too cold for there to be any concerts in the park.

And they must preserve their shoes.

Shoes cost money, Leigh would snap, her lips tight.

So Emily would roll her eyes at Hope and the two would go in to do the jigsaw puzzle in the study before the fireplace again. The leather heels of their oxfords would tap over the cold marble of the entry and then onto the smooth wide-planked oak of the study floor where once expensive Persians lay. The rugs were long sold now, the sisters knew.

Things disappeared from their large house in this way all the time.

The Dutch oil in the gilded frame from the dining room a few months ago. The large Hunt table her grandmother had brought over from London before The Crash gone since summer (School fees, Emily hypothesized to her sister.) And the Revere Tea Set that was supposed to have been hers when she married had been sold to pay the taxes.

It was expensive to maintain their lives in even the most superficial of ways.

The girls knew this because they spied at closed doors when their parents argued.

And they always argued about the money, of course.

It was the only subject.

Hope would declare she hated money, when the arguments began, and that when she grew up, she would live in Alaska with the Eskimos and never need money at all. Only fish.

Emily, older and more practical, would sigh at her in irritation.

"You'd still need money, Dopey Hopie."

"No, I wouldn't," stomped Hope.

"Well, I'm going to have it," resolved Emily, looking away from her.

For she knew that in order to not disappear herself (as all precious things must), she'd require the money, and to such a degree as to not have to worry about it ever again.

Because, clearly, if not for the money, her mother would not need to harangue her father in the awful closed door scenes and then they could be happy..

If not for money, or the loss of it, they _would_ be happy, this she was sure of. And then she'd be riding to school behind a chauffeur just like the Lott sisters with their perfect blonde curls and new patent leather pumps.

For what pretty girl does not hate that her school uniforms must be mended again and again?

That the sleeves of her winter coat are far too short.

That hems have been repeatedly let down.

That snickers from girls at The Academy must be borne when she and her sister were walked to school by _the Housekeeper _and not dropped off by a chauffeur in a black hat.

_A Parisian Scene _the puzzle was called.

They'd done it a thousand times.

Upside down and sideways for variety sometimes.

Once, backwards even. That had been a challenge, to figure out how the plain gray cardboard backs fit together by shape alone, no beautiful colors or gaily dressed ladies perusing paintings along the left bank to cheer them on.

Hope worked out the border. Emily liked to begin with the lady in the lilac dress which seemed to billow out into the bright sunny morning. The lady looked as if she hadn't a care in the world. As if no one ever said, No-you-can't-have-it to her at all.

And she wore a pearl necklace.

Truth was the Peal money had pretty much gone in The Crash years before.

The girls knew it. In fact, everyone knew it.

It was well known in all the upper circles of Hartford that the Peals were essentially broke (had been for years) and that Daniel Peal failed at every venture his misbegotten enthusiasm led him to.

Such things happened to the best of families, of course, and the Peals, under the steely fortitude of Leigh Bourke Peal, had hung on with greater tenacity than most.

It had, fortunately, been possible during the war to economize in the guise of nationalism.

In fact it had been quite chic to do so.

But when Daniel failed to get rich again off the war like anyone with an ounce of brains would, things got embarrassing.

Giving up their opera box had been a terribly public and painful tell.

At least the little girls were still in the right school tsked the ladies at bridge.

Emily shivered then as she popped the pearl necklace piece into the lilac lady's heart place, then sighed over the dark head of her sister and wished they could put another log on the fire.

_**Five**_

_November 1, 1963_

_Dear Mrs. Gilmore,_

_My daughter Emily is quite overflowing with happiness! As are we. _

_The cause, of course, is her engagement to Richard. It seems that he has everything that she's always longed for in a husband and, after a lovely speech from your son requesting her hand, my husband Daniel and I could not deny them. _

_I would like to invite you and Charles to dinner Monday the twelfth at seven to discuss the wedding details._

_We are very pleased with Emily and Richard's decision. He is clearly the finest of young men with a bright, bright future before him._

_I look forward to hearing from you._

_Sincerely,_

_Leigh Bourke Peal_

xxx

_December 8, 1926_

_Dear Mama,_

_I was so happy to receive your letter! I am sorry that you must still be gone but understand that the orphan children need help. I do think it is hard on the children whose Mamas are the helpers though too for I miss you very much. I promise to be very independent when I grow up as you said and to remember the women who died for voting but I think I would like to learn to ride camels and might be on long trips sometimes when there is an election._

_Nonnie says that my etude is going well and I practice very hard so please I hope you will come home for Christmas._

_Your loving daugher,_

_Lorelai Gilmore._

_**Six**_

Rory loved the young Women's History professor.

Most of the girls did. Who wouldn't? She was inspiring. A PhD. A young mother. She had a hot husband in the Political Science Department. She was published. Appeared occasionally on Nightline. And wore cool clothes.

Feminism: The Needful Resurrection.

The seminar title had intrigued her and the time slot was right for her schedule, so she went for it.

Her last semester at Yale. Her last chance to wring out every juicy bit of what was to be learned.

The first class had been the same old tired debate on what it meant to be a Feminist. And Rory's jaw literally dropped when she found that there were actually two young women _at Yale _who'd bought into some sort of pop culture crap that to be a Feminist meant to hate men.

"Bullshit," leveled Professor Roth with a twinkle in her eye, adding, "then what are_ they_ doing here?" as she pointed to three male graduate students in the class.

"Trying to pick up women?" batted the sparkly purple lashes of one of the aforementioned anti-man-haters.

After the laugh, the real work of the class began.

The dawning of understanding that men and women both needed to be promotive of the Feminist cause. How it benefitted all that women be equally compensated, that they got the benefits they deserved. That children got care that was beyond merely safe and affordable but was nurturing in the real sense as well.

Then the usual writers (Freidan, et al). The necessary cannon.

But then something really interesting: The Project.

The Personal Women's History Project.

Now _this _could be interesting...

_**Seven**_

When Rory was a little girl, Lorelai made sure that she saw Santa Claus every couple of months.

"Look there he is now!" she'd point excitedly to a white-bearded man at Dooses.

Five year old Rory would turn to stare at Santa then, in her solemn and unblinking manner, and then turn back to her mother.

"Why is he buying bananas?"

"He isn't," Lorelai assured her.

"He isn't?" Rory looked back at Santa, confused.

"Nope," whispered Lorelai conspiratorially, as she leaned down to her daughter's level, "He's just _pretending_ to buy bananas. In actuality he came to sneak a look at the best little girl in the world."

"Me?" The impossibly blue eyes widened even further.

"Oh, yes. Every once in awhile he needs an example of a truly good child to cheer him up and help figure out who really is naughty and nice."

"Oh," said Rory quietly, a little worried about the responsibility this bestowed upon her, as she watched Santa pick up a can of prunes.

_**Eight**_

_January 2, 1964_

_Em,_

_Don't make a moue!_

_Of course I'll be your Maid of Honor, silly! I'll fly home the week before. You're crazy to marry into that Gilmore clan, though. The grandmother was some sort of old time suffragette. Was in prison and all, I heard! _

_And his mother! Darling, the woman is the terror of charity committees everywhere. Eileen Foster's mother walked out of the War of 1812 Society Summer Meeting when Lorelai Gilmore suggested that they cancel that stuffy old Annual Ball, give all the money to charity, and just have afternoon tea instead! Ha!_

_Gotta admire the old bat's courage! _

_Well, one more semester at the Sorbonne Salt Mine and I'm going to Milan for the Gypsy Music Festival in the summer. _

_But, I promise, February the 14th (such a cliche, Em, really) in Hartford (though wouldn't you rather get a job? It's not too late for law school! Ha Ha.)_

_Kiss that tall, big shouldered man of yours for me!_

_Love, Hopie_

xxx

WESTERN UNIONTELEGRAM12-22-26

FROM WESTGATE HOSPITAL BKLYN NY

TO FREDERICK GILMORE ESQ

SIR stop REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT VICTORIA GILMORE DIED AT NINE AM TODAY stop CAUSE INFLUENZA CONTRACTED DURING CHARITY WORK AT SETTLEMENT HS stop SUFFERING BRIEF stop PATIENT ASKED FOR HUSBAND AND CHILD AT END stop PLEASE NOTIFY ARRANGEMENTS stop

_**Nine**_

Leigh could only close her eyes and rub at her temples in frustration.

The girls simply would not go.

She could not make them go. And Daniel would be soft and want to let them out of it. But she knew that the Lott's Annual Children's Christmas Party was not an event to be missed.

Heavens, but she was tired of this.

"My old blue velvet is creased from all the hem droppings," twelve year old Emily sulked. "Caroline Lott has a new organdy with a burgundy sash, and her brother Frank and all his friends have had dancing lessons! _I'm not going_!"

And she meant it.

And even though she had heard the practically true rumor that the hired Santa would be giving real Tiffany silver lockets to all the little girls as gifts, she still would not go. For once Hope was on her side in this too (though she didn't care a hoot that she only had the old tartan to wear), for her it was much more about the principle.

"Lynny Lott said all the boys get real leather bound illustrated copies of Treasure Island this year!"

"What is your point, Hope?" sighed Leigh, beyond exhaustion now.

"Why do the boys get keen books and the girls only get stupid lockets?"

Leigh gave up then and went to make the apologetic telephone call to Francine Lott.

_**Ten**_

Damn, if it hadn't been Luke who found the lump.

It is often the boyfriends or husband who do.

And their case was no different.

He'd come home late from the diner and found her curled up on the couch watching an old black and white movie.

"I brought you the blueberry pie," he smiled from the living room archway.

"Shhhh.."

"What are you watching?"

"Bombardier!"

"What?"

"It's a World War II propaganda film in which the epic conflict between Pilot and Bombardier is examined."

"They had an epic conflict?" he asked as he settled next to her.

"Oh yes, my friend. See, the pilots are _Officers _and the Bombardiers only enlisted, but they have to do all the hard math. It's riveting: Who should be in charge? Will the Bombardiers be given officer status?... Will the dumb guy sell bombardier secrets to the Nazis?"

"What happened to the Jerry Springer you were going to watch about men with really long hair finally getting haircuts?"

"Pre-empted."

Luke reached forward and clicked off the remote.

"Hey!"

"Let's go upstairs," he smiled.

She caught on quick.

"Can we play Pilot and Bombardier?" she teased.

"No."

"Come on! We can struggle for _dominance_."

"Still, no."

"You are not fun," she pouted.

"Are you sure about that?" he quirked a brow over his shoulder as he climbed the stairs ahead of her.

"Yeah, I probably shouldn't be," she wisely amended.

_**Eleven**_

January 10, 1927

To: Miss Rhonda Lewis

From: Frederick Gilmore, esq.

Re: Miss Lorelai Gilmore

Nonnie,

In light of my wife's recent passing, I am forced to acknowledge that I must consign the care of my only child to your experienced and continued excellent service to an even greater extent than has been previously expected. You will, of course, be recompensed accordingly.

I do not doubt your devotion to my daughter and know that the late Mrs. Gilmore had the greatest of faith in you.

In the fall Lorelai will begin at The Brickstone Academy as previously determined by my wife and myself.

Until then Miss Gordon will continue to tutor her in the little upstairs library and Mr. Rincon come twice weekly for piano lessons. I have also had Miss Gibbons contact The Bridle Club concerning riding lessons. Lorelai seemed quite interested in them last October when I spoke to her. Therefore they will begin on the nineteenth and continue on Thursdays at two pm.

Mrs. Palmerton also mentioned at the Memorial Service that it was time Lorelai began dancing lessons which I have no objection to at this time. Miss Gibbons will follow up on details of this at a later date.

I wish that my daughter would return to her previous productive routine. This seems wisest. The passing of her mother will be more easily forgotten if her name and memory are not mentioned before the child. I have therefore directed Mrs. Hoskins to ensure that the servants oblige me in this.

I will be setting out to settle several business interests in the Orient on the first of February and will return at the end of July at earliest. I can, as usual, be reached by wire through my office should need necessitate.

My daughter's weekly pocket money is to be increased by ten cents if she remains accurate in the accounting book I gave her for this purpose. The accounts at Masons remain, as usual, at your disposal for her clothing and other incidentals.

Please bid Lorelai goodbye for me.

Sincerely,

_Frederick Gilmore, esq_.

xxx

_February 1, 1964_

_Darling Richard,_

_Two weeks! _

_It is only two weeks away and I can hardly breathe with the happiness of it! I can think of nothing sweeter than the prospect of a future with the man I love so much! How can I not respond to one such as you who so clearly loves me with his whole heart? _

_And, my dearest, you should not have spent so much on a diamond tiara for me when I only mentioned in passing how I loved it. It was not a hint, I promise you, though Hopie will say I am shameless. It was only that it caught my eye when I was picking up our invitations at Tiffanys. I'd just never seen anything so glorious in my life that I could not help but talk of it. _

_(You alone know the sad story of my family in financial matters. And, I know, I know, you promised to make the pain of that a distant memory, dear man. I won't speak of it again as I know it upsets you.)_

_Oh, Richard, I do love it so! The diamonds just sparkle and sparkle. And I love you too, you silly impulsive Prince Charming. Mother is cancelling the veil (looked hideous on me anyway) so that I might wear my beautiful wedding gift from my wonderful fiancé on our wedding day! (The Misses Agate are still having fits over my fittings! I am an impossible bride!)_

_Emily_, y_our spoiled sweetheart who loves you so much!_

_PS Can Bobo still get the good champagne for the rehearsal dinner?_

_PPS Do not, I implore you, wear the yellow cravat to the Club tea! You do not want to risk my wrath on this again, sir!_

_PPPS I love you so much!_

_PPPPS Will your mother be attending?_

_**Twelve**_

Christmas. Something about it.

About the time of the year, about the bustle and the smell. The Apple Turnovers. The tree.

The snow.

But most importantly, something about the Christmastime of year had always made her mother almost, well, jovial.

An observant child, as Lorelai was, must be made happy when her mother becomes so uncharacteristically... jolly.

Well, perhaps jolly wasn't exactly the right word.

But at Christmastime Emily Gilmore laughed and joked more. Was more willing to think it charmingly precocious when Lorelai tried mixing a Christmas cake of her own invention, at five years of age, in the Limoges punch bowl (flour because it was a cake, talcum powder because it smelled good, glitter to make it pretty, and half a bottle of gin to make it grown up.)

Emily's eyes had actually crinkled up to hold back tears of laughter as the cook bellowed and sputtered on the outrage of children being allowed in the kitchen. But Emily smoothed things over with aplomb, sent the cook back to the kitchen appeased, and had then taken Lorelai out to see an ice skating show.

_An ice skating show!_

The astute child realized immediately that it was well worth it (at Christmastime) to wear the big stiff organdy dresses (layers of crinoline beneath) and lilac bows in her hair if only so that her mother would be amiable over the holidays.

The flip side of this was the knowledge that it would all go back to normal soon enough.

"I want you to wear the little seed pearl necklace too," Emily commanded, upon inspection.

And little Lorelai obliged her.

"Every year there was a big party for Christmas," she told Luke as he held her in bed. "Just for the children. Which was so not typically Emily because all the other events during the year were very grown up and formal. Birthdays even. But at Christmas all the kids came. There was a guy who made balloon animals. And games. She hired a Santa and had him give out books and gifts to all the kids, and then Dad would send him with another load of stuff over to a large Group Home on the other side of town."

"Sounds nice," said Luke as he squeezed him arms more tightly around her, and then, "Have you lost more weight?"

"It _was_ nice," she sighed as she thought about it, and then wiggled free, stretching to grab the phone, then dial, on impulse.

"Mom?

...Hey.

...I'm fine.

...No, really.

...Doing better.

...Yes, I am. Really.

...Say, what are you and Dad doing for dinner on Sunday?

...I just thought you might want to join us here. You know, in the evening, for dinner. Rory's coming too. She wants to ask you some family stuff for a school project. Seven-ish.

...No, nothing's wrong, Mom, except Emily Post is now flipping in her grave.

...Ha. Ha. Very funny (Lorelai rolled her eyes).

...Yes, I assure you it is I.

...Yes, Lorelai Gilmore. The One. The Only.

...You're pushing it now, lady.

...All right, all right, fine! My middle name is Victoria. Satisfied? Identity confirmed? Will you require a retinal scan as well?

...Yes, thank you. We look forward to seeing you too."

When Lorelai turned back around to Luke after she hung up, she took in his expression.

"_What?"_

"You just invited your mother for dinner, that's what," he returned mildly.

She bit her lip and looked down a moment, her fingers picking at the quilt.

"Is that all right?" she asked before looking up at him again.

"You can invite _Taylor_ if you want. The whole damn town, too. I don't care. Though, on second thought, please don't. Look, the Chemo's over. You're free and clear. To hell with dinner, I'm so relieved right now I'd throw you a frickin' circus if you wanted it," he told her.

She smiled and had to marvel again at where she was and what she had.

"Would you wear one of those tight little Trapeze Man Outfits?"

He blanched slightly, but she caught it.

"Uh, sure."

"Uh hunh. Right."

_God, this is wonderful. He is wonderful. We are wonderful._

"Well, how about I make the artichoke ravioli your mother likes just for the occasion instead?"

"But you would be serving it while wearing the tight little Trapeze Man Outfit, right?"

"Absolutely," he assured her as she clicked off the light and scooched back down into his arms.

"Really?"

"No."

"Luke?"

"Hmmm?"

"I love you."

"Mmm... love you too."

_**Thirteen**_

Notes/Ideas/Jottings. Rory Gilmore, Senior Project...

I. Thinking about the women in the family. Generations apart. Some who never knew each other (like me and Leigh, etc.)—How can we have so much in common in some ways and be so different in others? Nature/nurture? Nah, been done too much.

II. The Mothers wanting to give their daughters what they themselves lacked. Parenting for the previous generation's deficit? No, that's stupid. Question: Do mothers now take more time to try to understand their children as individuals? Does every generation think they are the first to try?

III. Do we ever just appreciate our mother's good intentions?

IV. Are good intentions enough to overcome natural mother/daughter friction? And, should they be?

Note: Check usual sources for quotes on motherhood—Plato, Shakespeare, etc. And go find a frickin' woman to quote for a change! _Sheesh_, Gilmore.

V. Theme to Consider (discuss with Prof. Roth—hah! a rhyme): All these women before me have helped create who I am. Therefore I owe them, and myself, to give the world the best that I can. To pay it forward. Or: Out of the Friction, the rubbing together of wants and lacks, we become the women we are from the mothers we've had, or from the women who mother us.–?

VI. Is the above too pedantic? vague? corny?

Ooo, _corn_...

I am hungry!

VII. Buy: Cookies, Cheetohs, Coke, and Corn Nuts. All things 'C'. Long night of reading more letters ahead.

VIII. Ask Grandma about Aunt Hope.

Get Coffee and Chocolate too!

Call Lane.

_**Fourteen**_

It had about broken Leigh's heart to sell her grandmother's pearls and the three tiny eighteenth century portraits which had come to her from the Steventon side. They were about all she'd had left of her family, after all. But the Sorbonne for Hope had not been cheap, even with the scholarship, and now, of course, there was Emily's wedding to be paid for. And trousseau. And they'd have to settle something on their daughter when she married as well (One such as Lorelai Gilmore would insist on that, no doubt.)

Well, there were still the Georgian candelabra, she supposed, as she made a few inward calculations. So, they might just squeak by.

She suddenly had a fervent wish that when Hope's time came, she would elope.

Knowing Hope, she would.

Leigh sighed and tapped her pen against the desk edge. The wedding seating chart fanned out before her.

The Gilmores were Old World. Had that pre-Edith Wharton-esque quality that just slid shivers of dread down her back. The balance between discretion and opulence must therefore rest on the finest of needle points. There must be no mistakes. Gilmores do not brook them.

Leigh wanted what was best for Emily. She did. She wanted her to have The Grand Life she coveted. She never saw a girl who was more suited to it. But when this was all over, she decided there and then, she was going to sell her mausoleum of a house (always cold, and _what was it _she'd sold to pay for heating last winter?), grab Daniel by the ear, and move to a small town in Maine. Preferably on the coast.

Once there she would read novels and listen to jazz.

Perhaps take up smoking, she thought with a glint.

_**Fifteen**_

_November 2, 1986_

_Mom and Dad,_

_I am so sorry and I know that in a thousand years I will never be able to make you understand, but I have to leave. I just do. Rory and I will be fine and I'll be in touch as soon as I know where we will be. Please, please try to understand that I am very unhappy here and that I need to make a new life for my daughter and for myself somewhere else._

—_Lorelai_

xxx

_February 16, 1964_

_Dear Hopie,_

_Just a note from the ship to say thank you again for all your help with the wedding. I don't think I could have dreamed anything more beautiful than the reality of walking down the aisle to meet Richard. The orchids, the silver, the dress. Just perfect. And, yes, Dopey, I have written to thank Mother and Dad too. What is this nonsense about Maine? Mother was rather tipsy at the end! _

_And, yes, I know the Gilmores can be quite formidable but I would bear anything to be with the man I love!_

_Have a safe journey back to Paris and be sure to send me a card when you get to Milan. _

_Your hopelessly in love sister, _

_Em_

xxx

_February 13, 1964_

_My Dearest Richard,_

_It is with a heavy heart that I write you this letter tonight, but I cannot stand by and let you make a terrible mistake._

_Until now, I had thought, hoped, prayed that you would come to the same conclusion that I have._

_But you have not and therefore I feel it is my duty as your mother to beg you to reconsider your impending marriage. I'm sure that Emily is a very suitable woman for someone, but not for you. She will not be able to make you happy. What she wants in life is very far removed from the Gilmore ideal, Richard._

_I don't know the circumstances surrounding your break up with Pennilyn Lott, but it is still my belief that she is much better suited for you than Emily. I know that the timing of this is particularly awkward, since you are to be married tomorrow, but your happiness is too important to me, so timing be damned!_

_Dear boy, I have fretted and lain awake with heavy conscience on this matter and do not undertake this letter lightly, I assure you._

_I must speak now and will then, ever after, hold my peace. Heed me, son, heed me._

_Now you may well scoff and say 'Of course Emily is not a Gilmore, Mother!'_

_But you well know that I mean she cannot become one even by marriage. The Gilmores are an old and noble family dating back centuries. This, you know. And, more importantly, they have always worked hard in perfect comprehension of their duty and sense of Noblesse Oblige._

_Our money. Our hard work. Our sense of charity. All of these have always been for the betterment of society, culture, and those less fortunate as ourselves, Richard. _

_Need I really remind you of that?_

_Consider that Emily's family has lost not one but two fortunes (Leigh Bourke Peal's from the Steventons is almost quite gone too, I hear.)_

_Good Lord, Richard, the Peals may well have need of the Gilmore beneficence themselves before long! How can this not turn out but for the worst, I ask you?_

_I never want you to forget the great history of struggle for suffrage in our family! It is, in fact, your obligation to remember your forefathers and mothers who were great orators and workers for the eradication of human suffering throughout history!_

_They were Abolitionists, for instance. And my own mother, who stood, hands clasped with Alice Paul, as they were force-fed on a hunger strike in prison for women's rights, metal tubes shoved right down their throats to their stomachs by prison guards!_

_Oh, the indignity, Richard! But all for the greater good! Money is nothing to this!_

_You have been well schooled in the catalogue of museums and hospitals and services for children our great wealth has funded, as well. I need not detail it all here. Institutions that have done the real and necessary work of the world. Tubercular Clinics long before anyone in Society would think of such a thing, Influenza research funding at Yale. _

_All of this is quite beyond the ken of one such as Emily Peal, Richard._

_To be blunt, Son, and I feel I must be at this late hour: Emily is a Climber of the first degree._

_Your children will either become vapid society flits, or rebel heinously against their shallow mother (and who could blame them?)_

_Mark my words._

_Once married, Emily will rush about to D.A.R. functions and the like, spending her life hosting teas and balls for dying wildflowers and so forth, while trying to pull off perfect dinner parties for your business associates (good luck keeping a decent chef with her petulant ways, by the by.)_

_But, to what end, Richard? To what end! _

_Consider, before it is too late, that these parties and functions will be their own end for Emily. That filling your home with art and fine furniture will be its own end too. That dressing up whatever children you may have will be a thing for show._

_Money, power, and position should be nothing if not to improve the world. _

_I am saddened beyond words, Son, at your choice of wife._

_My God, Richard, I understand that she plans on wearing a diamond tiara to your afternoon wedding tomorrow, and that you actually indulged the silly flit by buying it for her! _

_It is all too gauche._

_Richard, you know perfectly well that it is not appropriate for an American to wear a tiara! Tiaras are the entitled right of nobility. That starlet Grace Kelly waited until she was entitled (if only by marriage) before she wore her tiara. And she was only an actress!_

_Does Emily Peal lack so basic an understanding of the mores of society?_

_Is she that bent on imagining herself royal? Of playing princess?_

_(I just had a shocking vision of her in the future in which she spends all her free time shopping!)_

_What is the world coming to, I ask you, when an American feels it is appropriate to wear a tiara, which is no more than a crown, Richard?_

_Our ancestors died to create this country of freedom and equal rights, without the tyranny of royalty. They drafted the constitution. They got the vote for women. For heaven's sake, your father and I protested McCarthyism!_

_We did not wear crowns doing any of this, I assure you. Your father, may he rest in peace, would be scandalized._

_When Phinneas Noah Gilmore spirited Dolly Madison away in the night, it was the portrait of George Washington they saved from the burning White House. Not a crown._

_When the Gilmores came to this country, they gave up crowns and tiaras for something much grander._

_Do you think an Emily Peal will ever understand that, Richard?_

_I do not think so. Moreover, I fear, she will cause you to lose sight of this as well._

_Again, it is not too late. I will make all the arrangements. I will send away the guests and gifts. Whatever need be done, I will undertake it for you._

_I beg you again, Son, do not forget the grand legacy of public good that belongs to a true Gilmore! Do not allow Emily to determine your focus to only the material in this world._

_You, my love, are made for greater things!_

_Your Most Loving and Concerned Mother,_

_Lorelai Gilmore_

_**Sixteen**_

"Rory, come in."

"Thank you for seeing me, Professor Roth."

"My pleasure. Did you want to go over your ideas for your project again?"

"No. Something else. Something that I've been thinking about. It's just... "

"What?"

"I've been finding out all these... _things_ about my family. It's been a little overwhelming really. About the women in my family, actually. I've been reading their letters. My grandfather had them. And then I talked to my grandparents and..."

"And what? What have you learned that is upsetting you, Rory?"

"It's hard to say, really. They were just all so real, you know? All the women from before. They were walking around and their hearts were broken, and they wanted things, and made sacrifices, and got sick. Like my Mom did..."

"Rory, are you all right?"

"Yes, sorry, I didn't mean to come here and get all weepy. It's just that these women in my family tried so hard to _be _certain things, and tried to give their daughters certain things too. And some even _did_ things, important things. My great-great grandmother was a suffragette even. But I..."

"But you're trying to figure out where you fit into all this history? What the legacy of being a Gilmore Woman is? And how it's supposed to impact your adult life?"

"Yes, that's it exactly! Thank you. What do I do with all this that I now know? And where does it leave me?"

"Where do you think it leaves you, Rory?"

"I don't know. But it's making me hungry."

_**Seventeen**_

She looked out the window across the yard at the way the little white buds were starting to pop out in the tree.

_Wow._

She reached down then to lift the sash and feel the cool air chill her cheeks.

And smiled.

She wondered then if Kirk had hidden all the eggs and if he'd convinced Taylor to invest in a GPS system for locating those gone astray after all, before turning back into the room and heading into the kitchen with all its shining appliances.

"I want to help," she declared.

"No."

"Come on, Luke! Let me help."

"No."

"But the pasta thingy looks fun."

"We have discussed the use of the word _thingy_ in all its applications."

"I know, I know."

"Go fix the flowers in the dining room."

"Did it already."

"Set the table then."

"Did that too."

"Not the Charlie's Angels plates..."

"No, Anita Bryant, I used the diner stuff."

"Last time your mother came she said she was going to order us a new set of dishes when we get married. Do they really make bone china out of bones? Sounds ominous. And gross."

"All the more reason to keep shacking."

Luke stopped cranking the pasta machine to look up at her.

"I'm kidding, Luke."

"We're going to the Courthouse next week, Lorelai."

"I know. Don't worry. Really."

Satisfied, he returned to his work, "How are you feeling?"

"I feel great."

He looked up at her and grinned at that.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," she grinned back, "C'mere and kiss me, Chef Stud."

"Lorelai, your parents will be here in half an hour."

"So hurry up and c'mere then."

_**Eighteen**_

It was an impossibly large room in an impossibly large house with a staff of five.

Its small single occupant completely unaware that her circumstances were extraordinary.

"Here is your cake, Mr.Armitidge," she said.

Her voice echoed off the plastered walls which began curving in a graceful arc at sixteen feet, then domed prettily, above elaborate crown moldings, at twenty-two.

The ceiling was painted a clear robin's egg blue, frescoed with gilt stars.

"China tea is best for your indigestion, Teddy," she turned to the bear beside her at the table then, "And, how are your poor ill children now that their Mother is dead?"

"Lorelai!" called a voice at the doorway.

"Yes, Nonnie?"

"It's time to go visit your Great Aunt Helen."

"Her house smells like cats," sighed the child.

"Nevertheless, we must go," replied the nanny matter-of-factly.

"All right."

"We can go over to the park across her road for awhile afterwards if you like."

"Oh! Will there be other children there?"

"I don't think so, dear. Most are in school now. The rose garden will be budding, though."

"Could we drive past the school to see if the children are playing in the schoolyard on the way home then?"

"Yes, very well."

"And may I bring Mr. Armitidge with me, please?"

"Yes, Lorelai, I suppose you may. Come downstairs to get your coat now."

The little girl picked up the doll dressed nattily in its three-piece tweed suit and bow tie.

"When I go to school, there will be lots and lots of other children there, Mr. Armitidge, you'll see," she told him as she adjusted his monocle.

She headed downstairs then, past the formal and public rooms (closed up for months now, the furniture draped in ghostly white dust cloth) and headed to the front door.

_**Nineteen**_

_December 10, 1986_

_Dear Sis,_

_She will be fine, Em. She will be. You must believe this. She is a bright and resourceful young woman now. And, if she wants to make a life for herself, you must try to find room in your heart to be a little proud of her for it. You must try, darling. If not for yourself or Lorelai, or Rory, then for Richard who has quite gone out of his mind with the loss of three of the four women in his life._

_I know, I know, it's easy for me to say._

_But, dear old thing, you must rally. You must take up your life again. Make yourself presentable and strong so that if she or her little girl should need you again, you will be ready and able to do what is necessary._

_And you must keep trying in any way you can to stay close to her as well. To at least try to resolve some of the issues that will be between mother and daughter. Did you think you would be exempt from them, Em? Did you think because you resolved to not be what you saw as weak and self-sacrificing in our own motherthat you would be strong and independent, yet brook no nonsense from your own child by contrast— that this would be the basis for no enmity between you?_

_Though I suppose that is not something one really considers as they gaze upon the beautiful innocence of their young child, it is something that always changes with maturity._

_Emily, I am not a mother, but pretty much know despite this that mothers and daughters will conflict with the lightning bolts of Mt. Olympus between them at some point or other. However each new generation may resolve to do differently._

_It is the nature of such intense love, darling, for there to also be this as well._

_So, Emily, pull up your socks, for heaven's sake!_

_Pour some starch on your spine!_

_And get the hell out of bed! _

_Now!_

_I will write again soon. I've been thinking of you so much lately. _

_They've just hanged the holiday lights along the Champs Elysees._

_Love, Hopie_

_**Twenty**_

The final shove out the door had come when they argued over Rory's shoes.

Such a little thing to perch atop the iceberg of what all the big things were, yet, nevertheless, the one that sent her packing.

Emily wanted Rory's feet laced up tightly in either white or black patent leather kid shoes at all times. Preferably with little lace-edged socks above and neatly folded over.

Lorelai felt, as the toddler learned to walk, that she should do so bare-footed.

Emily would come into the nursery to find Rory stacking blocks, her feet naked to the world and purse her lips in exasperation.

Lorelai, after completing some inane homeschool assignment toward her GED, would go to retrieve her daughter from the nanny for her bath, and find her stumbling along the floor in heavy shoes that even wrapped around Rory's little pink ankles.

Watching her daughter in this miniaturized impression of Frankenstein was, to use the cliche, the final straw.

Lorelai'd just had enough.

And, she was eighteen now.

This had been her life for the past year: Emily had selected the nanny. Emily continued to invite Christopher over (despite the break-up.) Emily determined Rory's diet. Had already enrolled her in an exclusive pre-school she could not attend for another three years. Had set out the rules about visiting friends (those she had left). Regulated the telephone and the tv...

She was even lining up college applications and forbidding Lorelai to get a job.

And she bought Rory's overpriced shoes herself.

So, finally, when they came to the bitter verbal blows that ended it all, it had been over this.

The shoes, of all things.

"I am _her mother_!" Lorelai had finally screamed.

"And _I'm yours_!" Emily shot back.

And that was it in a nutshell.

_Being_ a mother was damned near impossible with her own mother harping at her and constantly questioning her choices.

How long would it be before this affected Rory too? Something that must not happen at all cost.

Lorelai simply could not negotiate the _becoming_ of a mother while _being mothered _at the same time.

Maybe there were saintly souls out there who could, but she sure as hell wasn't one of them.

So, it had been easy enough to sort through stuff and pack her car with just what she and Rory really needed. Easy enough to clean out her bank account. Easy enough to strap Rory into the carseat. Easy enough to just go.

Staying away, though, had not been easy at all.

There'd been many dark and frightening nights up late with a crying baby to come, followed by the gritty-gray mornings of getting up with the chickens to mop floors and fold towels.

Finding a sitter. How to pay taxes. Long waits in free clinics. Loneliness.

There were some aspects of reality that just majorly sucked in comparison to being a teenager of privilege and wealth in Hartford.

But now, as she looked across the new dining room table (found at Kim's just last week), in the beautiful home she and Luke shared, and watched as her daughter asked her grandmother questions about family history, she had to bite her lip a bit to keep from smiling too broadly.

She knew without looking that Rory, in one simple readjustment of movement, had slipped her shoes off under the table as she listened to Emily tell stories.

And she knew that her daughter was as essentially stable and happy as perhaps it was in the power for any one person to be.

And that right now she was wiggling her toes too.

Lorelai had no regrets.

"But what happened to _your _mother, Grandma? I didn't find any letters from her after she moved to Maine."

Emily frowned, "She didn't write many after she and Daddy moved. What was that Richard? About a year after our wedding?"

"That sounds right," he agreed and drank deeply of Luke's good coffee, "The coffee is, as usual, delicious, Luke. The pasta was wonderful too."

"Glad you liked it, Richard."

"But what happened to her? To my Great Grandma Leigh?" Rory persisted.

Emily shifted uncomfortably and took a sip of her own coffee before answering.

"Well, a few years after they moved, she got ill."

"Cancer," supplied Richard and glanced at his daughter sitting at the head of the table.

"_Breast_ cancer?" asked Rory softly.

"Yes."

And they all sat quietly a moment over that.

_**Twenty one**_

It had been such fun!

Exciting too, and a surprise.

So, all in all, exactly what she wanted without knowing it _was_ what she wanted.

How cool is that?

It was supposed to have been a simple dinner of friends. Everyone they loved together at Sniffy's the night before she and Luke went to the Courthouse, but Liz and Sookie and, she suspected, Rory too, had conspired against them, enlisted Maizie, and had taken the place over. They'd decorated, and bought flowers, and had funny stories to tell over toasts of good wine (and beer).

They'd even invited Emily and Richard for Rory's sake. And though they'd stood uncomfortably in the background, faces frozen in what were supposed to be polite smiles, they'd wisely held their peace.

It may well have been the world's first surprise wedding in which the bride and groom were the only ones not in on the plan.

And it had gone over great. Even Luke, tipsy and newly tolerant (such was his joy at Lorelai's good health), was glad for it.

Rory stood up for Lorelai, Liz for Luke.

And they were all swept away.

Miss Patty serenading them at the mike.

And when Sookie rolled out the giant coffee cake topped with wee garden gnomes (one sporting a homemade veil, the other a cap), they'd all laughed and laughed.

_**Twenty two**_

Senior Project: Conclusion/First Draft and Notes

"There is no mother who loves her child so much that she is not happy to see her go to sleep."

Anonymous

(Note: Perhaps the George Elliot quote here instead, though this one is funny)

There comes a point in growing up in which we must all acknowledge that we are part of something greater than ourselves. Some of us are fortunate enough to identify the legacy this brings, embrace it, and decide to dedicate our lives to honoring it. In the way we live and love, in unencumbered generosity, in social activism, and in the work we do.

My own personal epiphany about this has come about through the examination of the relationships between mothers and daughters within my family's history. The mothers unfailingly tried to improve the lives of their daughters in all cases. Two of them actively tried to improve the lot of women in general in order to improve the lives of their children specifically.

Sometimes these mothers were misguided in their efforts. Sometimes they made choices that distressed their children. And sometimes, frankly, they were wrong.

But I'd like to focus on the fact that they tried.

And that when their daughters grew to maturity, they tried too.

I am fortunate to be a very privileged woman in our society. I have never wanted for anything in my life, and have had many very fine opportunities that are denied to the rest of society in general.

In England, a social justice group calls itself '7/84'. This to illustrate the fact that seven percent of the population owns eight-four percent of the wealth.

(Note: Look up equivalent percentages current in U.S.)

It makes a compelling metaphor, these numbers.

For I am in that seven percent and am here to tell you that being the winner in an unfair game is no victory.

Looking closely at the motivations of the women in my family has sobered me. Has focused me, in fact, on a future that I know will be much more fulfilling than, say, yachting.

For, if in my journalistic career and personal life, I enlighten myself. If I choose to not focus my energy on generating more wealth for we lucky seven percent. If instead I turn my considerable resources to help the other ninety three percent (the overwhelming population of homeless in this country being women and children), I honor all the mothers who tried to make differences for their daughters. Not just the fortunate and not just those in my own family.

If I can do all this in my work and my life, I'll be able to perhaps look my own child in the eye one day and say, I tried too.

And I really want to be able to do that.

(Further Notes: Reference the interview I did with Kelly, a Yale graduate, I met living in the homeless shelter. What led her, and her daughter, from Yale to homelessness?

Reflect on what the mothers in my family have wanted for their children (vis a vis current social movements.) Mom wanting me to have The Important Life; Leigh wanting Emily to have The Grand Life; Lorelai wanting Richard to honor the family tradition of Noblesse Oblige. Victoria wanting Lorelai to be Independent and Aware of The Woman's Plight.

And what did Grandma want for Mom as opposed to what she wanted for herself? Question and think about this.

What would I want for my daughter one day? It is easy to say 'happiness' now, but I doubt it's ever that simple.

Finally, consider issue of childcare in this country. As social policy, as personal problem. If we demand that women on welfare work, where are they supposed to put their children when full-time minimum wage does not cover the cost of weekly childcare?

And why is this still considered a 'Women's Issue' when children should be an issue for us all? This is the core of what Feminism is—Equality Benefitting All.)

Call Dad. What is he thinking for Gigi? How can I make a difference for her?

_**Twenty three**_

"She could have been_ Extraordinary_, Rory."

"But, Grandma, _she is. _She is extraordinary"

"You don't understand, Rory, and I don't know if I can explain it."

"Will you try? For me?"

"When I was young, girls, for the most part, still determined their future by the men they married."

"But the women's movement was pretty powerful then."

"Yes, I suppose it was. In some quarters. But not in Society. Not then."

Rory frowned and thought about the Huntzbergers

"Not now really, either, Grandma, I guess. In some quarters."

"No, I suppose not. Now, I wanted your mother to marry within our own circle. I don't deny that. It was how I was raised and I've never seen reason to question the value of marrying one's own kind..."

"But, Grandma..."

"Don't interrupt, young lady."

"Sorry."

"But, your mother was special, Rory. She was very bright and beautiful too, of course. And, even early on, had this verbal acuity that just floored people. She made _a pun _about nappies and sleeping when _she was four. _The nanny actually shrieked and came to find me when she heard it."

"Wow."

"That's right; 'Wow'. With her intelligence and beauty and charm, she could have grown up to be a very powerful and important woman in the world if..."

"...If not for me?"

"Now, get that out of your head right now. Your arrival, perhaps, waylaid the process temporarily, but no one is anything but grateful for you. No, it was all your mother. Your mother who could have been famous (for the right reasons), and great, and important. In social circles. In charitable circles. In diplomatic circles, even. Yes, it would have helped immeasurably for her to marry the right sort for this to happen. But she, _my daughter_, Lorelai Victoria Gilmore, she had it within her to be this _on her own_."

"Wow, again."

"Yes, 'Wow again'. That is quite a thing to a woman of my generation, I don't hesitate to tell you. To distinguish oneself away from one's husband. But she, stubborn little mule that she is, didn't want it. Her wretched independence was more important. And once she got that, she seemed to derive the oddest satisfaction from clipping coupons and living simply.

I don't pretend to understand it. And I never shall.

She seems happy enough, with Luke, with this new home, with her Inn. And certainly with you. But, between you and I, there has always been great potential within your mother—The Potential To Be Extraordinary, for which I find it hard to forgive her for wasting."

"Do you think you ever will, Grandma? Forgive her, that is?"

"Frankly, I doubt it matters," Emily arose from the porch swing then, signaling the end of the interview.

"It's cool out here on the porch now, Rory. Shall we go in? I understand Luke has made one of his delicious desserts."

"All right. But, Grandma..."

"Rory, I don't want to talk about it anymore. I don't really see the point."

"Okay."

_**Twenty four**_

November 26, 1927

To: Miss Lorelai Gilmore, The Brickstone Academy

From: Frederick Gilmore, Esq. The Ritz, Paris

_My dear Lorelai,_

_Thank you for sending me your little essay on The Illiad. I enjoyed it very much and only counted two spelling errors._

_I have recently, however, also received a letter from Headmistress regarding your behavior of late and, while I commend your philanthropy, you must understand that it is in no way appropriate for you to give your pocket money away to a housemaid, however sick her child may be._

_There are appropriate places in the world for such unfortunates, Lorelai, as I know the Headmistress has instructed you. In future, please refrain from direct dissemination of charity._

_I hope to be home for your holidays but cannot say that I will be able to catch the boat in time. As usual, my schedule is determined by my work. Your Great Aunt Helen, however, will be happy to see you._

_I have bought the loveliest little French painting of dancers at auction for your present. Miss Gibbons is having it shipped._

_Be a good little girl._

_Fondly, your Father,_

_Frederick Gilmore _

xxx

_April 12, 1967_

_Dear Em,_

_Congratulations, dear! _

_I suppose Richard insisted on the name being Lorelai—hahaha! You are a martyr to that family. _

_I would have written sooner but Helene and I are only just back from Greece to find your telegram._

_She sounds like a beauty! A curly-haired, blue-eyed beauty. I had my money on red hair but am always wrong in such things. I also thought she'd be a boy! And Lord help us all if she turns out to be as stubborn as her mother!_

_And, regarding your last letter, I don't care how puritanical or provincial Bobo and Totsie are, or what biliousness they spread around at the clubs. Helene and I are happy. End of story._

_Besides, Bobo is a Jackass._

_You can roll your eyes if you want, Em. Or chalk it up to turning 'French', or whatever. But I'm not going to live my life in hiding and neither is Helene.._

_Oh, my new poem is in Match this week! _

_I've enclosed a clipping as I know how hard it is to find in Hartford. _

_I'm also sending four adorably smocked little dresses for the baby, and a beautifully bound Peter Pan I found the other day by separate post._

_Send a photo as soon as you can!_

_Congratulations again! I will write more soon._

_Love, Hope_

_PS_

_Did I hear correctly that Lynny Lott married Chet Morgan? A small country could be funded on that merger!_

xxx

_November 16, 1993_

_Dear Grandma and Grandpa,_

_Thank you for sending me The Little Princess. I enjoyed it very much. I like the way she can be friends with the maid and that her father gets better and comes home to take care of her._

_I am very busy with school and my friend Lane and I are going to be Pilgrims in the Thanksgiving Pageant. The exciting news, though, is that Mom has been promoted to Manager of the whole Inn! _

_We had a little party to celebrate with cupcakes and coffee. It was fun. _

_Mom says we will see you on Thanksgiving Day. It is always very busy for us._

_Thank you again for the book._

_Love, Rory_

_**Twenty-five**_

"But, Luke thinks we're loading the dishwasher."

"Yes, he does."

"But we're not."

"Nope."

"We're eating the rest of the cake."

"Yes, we are. Problem?"

"Can't think of a one. Oops! Hand me another fork, this one snapped."

"So, you and Grandma talked for a long time."

"Yeah, we did."

"Did you get everything you needed to finish your project?"

"I guess."

"You guess?"

"Yeah, it was good. Mom?"

"Hmmm?"

"What is it you wanted most for me as I was growing up?"

"The ability to sing like Barbra Streisand."

"Seriously."

"Seriously? Rory, where is this coming from?"

"My senior project. And, just me. What is it you wanted me to have in my life when I grew up?"

"Whatever _you_ wanted for yourself. But, you knew that, didn't you? Grandma always has a pretty clear idea of what others should be, and I wanted that choice to be yours to make."

"What about for yourself? What did you want for yourself?"

"You mean other than that Bangle dream?"

"Yes."

"Well, before The Great Miracle That is You, I think I just wanted to be loved."

"But, Grandma and Grandpa love you."

"I know they do. But, I wanted to be loved for who I was and not what I might be. It's too much pressure to be loved for your potential."

"Oh."

"I mean it was hard enough figuring out who I was in the first place."

"What about after The Great Miracle That is Me?"

"The space to be happy, I guess."

"Independent?"

"Well, that's what it amounted to. Pass me a napkin, will you?"

"God, Luke makes the best cake."

"Why do you think I'm marrying him?"

_**Twenty six**_

One of Luke's special breakfasts before she left for the city.

Just Mom and herself together in the old way with Luke hovering around the edges. Kirk dropping by with a new brochure. Taylor coming in to bluster and whine. All the usual background buzz to what could have been one of a thousand such breakfasts.

But they all knew that it was Goodbye in its way.

Not final and complete, of course, but in that 'You can never go home' vein nonetheless.

They didn't talk about that part, though. They laughed over graduation, and the wedding. Lorelai bragged to whomever would listen about her daughter winning the Hastings Prize for Excellence in a Senior Project.

Luke slipped chocolate chips into her pancakes.

And when she stopped out on the curb afterwards to look back over her shoulder and in through the window to the diner once more, she caught her breath and tried to swallow the little bubble in her throat.

If she squinted, and looked hard through dancing motes in the sunshine, she could imagine that they were all there, if she wanted to.

And she did. She did want to imagine that.

All there together where it was safe and warm at Luke's. All the mothers and the daughters. And the rest of her family too. All happy. Little Lorelai holding Mr. Armitidge up so that her mother could see him as Babette looked on. Leigh smiling as her two beautiful daughters put together a jigsaw puzzle, with Lane's help, sitting at Luke's counter.

Richard, Sookie, Davey, all of them...

Emily fondly resting her hand on her daughter's head, smoothing down the curls and placing a kiss where her hand had trailed.

And finally, she herself with Mom. Drinking coffee, laughing. Teasing Luke.

That's how she'd keep it all inside, she decided there and then.

Just like that.


	18. Live

5.18 _To Live and Let Diorama _episode addition (sorta)

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Sometimes even I feel silly.

And though I loathe, despise, and abominate author's notes, I'm writing some anyway...

The following was written originally for April Fools' Day, and as a break after my 'Friction' epic (which I know played fast and loose with the Gilmore Gospel according to some (dates, etc.) but as it _was fictional_, and my own hot-aired brand of it, remains exactly what I wanted to write.)

The following was also written because too much cheese and soap are bad for a girl's complexion.

And because recycling is good for the world.

Besides, tonight's show made me laugh. Which is something I needed.

(I considered sonnets but felt that Gilmore Girls would like limericks better. That they were mentioned on the show is just icing.)

_**For Kitty and her very own Independence Inn.**_

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**I.**

Few have the beauty of a Lorelai

Not even the Aurora Borealiai

Luke's clearly quite smitten

Logan, maybe quitten

And Dean left alone, a bore, to sigh.

**II.**

Though Emily did clearly earn it

Lor would get the writer to burn it

It can't be any good

(Though it praises the food.)

It tells truth but Em won't discern it.

**III.**

It's cloudy, the diner guy's motive

But Lorelai's clearly promotive

To build a museum

Then lower his per diem

For the light of his life, his votive.

**IV**.

Without sex, Zach is no Lancelot

At fair Sophie he will glance a lot

For Lane's honored her vow

Not for breaching, her bow

Abstinence mightn't get even a shot.

**V.**

Damn College Men! moan Rory and Paris

For their poor hearts these boys will harass

Nary a faithful hound

Clueless too, I'll be bound

Callow youth plunging into morass.

**VI.**

That's more than enough from netherfield

Only fluff from her inked quill-feather yield

If all she's got is sap

Go get yourself a nap

Her fic's future fate is better sealed.

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**Try it at home. It's fun**.

Limerick: Function:_ noun._ Etymology: _Limerick_, Ireland

–a light or humorous verse of 5 chiefly anapestic verses of which lines 1, 2, and 5 are of 3 feet and lines 3 and 4 are of 2 feet with a rhyme scheme of _aabba_.

**Note**: Drinking wine while writing a limerick is, of course, not required. But, I guarantee it will help with your rhyming. With the counting of feet, syllables, and figuring out the stresses and so forth, not so much.


	19. Gilmore

5.19 _But I'm a Gilmore_ addition. Morning.

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Errrrrrrrrrr...

Neck hurts.

Pillow. He needs a pillow.

Why the fuck can't he find a pillow?

Lorelai snorts into his back then.

And drools a little.

He now remembers why he can't have a pillow.

And why the curtains haven't been drawn, forcing him to squint even though his eyes are still closed.

She snorts a little more loudly and slides her knee between his thighs.

Part of his anatomy is now helping him remember that he loves her anyway.

She mumbles, _"Carrots." _and he reaches around behind them, slips his hand under her over-sized t-shirt and cups her ass.

Yep. Part of his anatomy is very awake now.

Even if Lorelai isn't.

But he still can't open his eyes.

Then he thinks he hears himself snore and finds himself cooking at The Dragonfly again, crushing the rosemary to rub on the chops. Manny seems to float out of the kitchen as Lorelai pads in softly wearing that black dress and very _very_ red lipstick...

"_Luke,_" she says, deep and throaty, looking at him in that way that means she wants him.

"Luke," he says again...

Part of his anatomy is really...

Wait a minute.

_He?_

_Nah... _he scoffs.

"Luke, I can't reach the cereal," he hears this time.

"Then eat something else, Kirk," he groans.

Wait a minute.

Kirk?

_Kirk!_

His eyes snap open then immediately wince in the bright sunny room.

"Kirk! What the hell are you doing here!" he barks.

Part of his anatomy might just have shriveled up and died forever.

He feels Lorelai's breathing shift behind him.

"I can't reach the cereal," whines the puffy face peering closely into his.

"Kirk, Lorelai and I are in bed right now!" _And Thank God we're dressed_.

Part of his anatomy may have, in fact, just fallen off.

"But, Luuuuke, Lorelai put the cereal up really high. I'm still on pain killers after my root canal. I get vertigo if I climb up on anything too high."

"Then eat something from down low," he growls.

Lorelai shudders slightly behind him.

"_But Spongebob is on!_ I can't watch Spongebob without my cereal first!" is Kirk's plaintive response.

He's distinctly aware that Lorelai's playing dead now.

He thinks he might hate her.

He sighs bitterly, throws back the quilt, disengages from her limbs, and swings his feet onto the floor.

"Fine. I'll get your cereal for you," he grumps as he gets up.

"I want Fruitloops!"

"No. Too much sugar. Youmay have Cheerios," he snaps, as they head down the stairs and into the kitchen.

"But I want the Star Wars Light Saber Cereal Spoon! It's in the Fruitloops."

"You're having Cheerios. With a banana."

"But it lights up!"

"Cheerios, Kirk!"

"You are a mean man, Luke!"

"Hey!"

"Sor-ry," Kirk hangdogs as he sits at the table.

He reaches up to get the Cheerios, then hands Kirk a bowl, a spoon, and a glass. Then crosses to the refrigerator for milk and orange juice. He grabs the banana on the way back to the table.

"Eat your breakfast. And don't turn the volume up too loud again."

"Yeah, yeah..."

"Kirk?"

"What?"

"What do you say?"

"Thank you, Luke."

By the time he gets back up to bed, Lorelai really is asleep.

With all the pillows.


	20. How

5.20 _How Many Kropogs to Cape Cod?_ episode addition. A week or two later.

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Dark blue for light blue.

Because the light blue feels more like Spring. And sets off her eyes better. She'd waffled on the choice for awhile, mostly because she could, and then had gone ahead and made the exchange.

And it had been nice to get out of town and make the drive to New Haven. It was sunny and pleasant out. A beautiful new day.

She'd decided against the capri pants though. They looked too _bon vivant _for her taste right now. And she was in no mood for _bon vivant_. But to be out and alone is... nice. She hasn't done something like this in a very long time.

So she walks along the boutique-filled street, pausing now and then to look in a window.

Richard and Emily are in Cape Cod compound shopping for the week.. At least that's what the maid's told her.

She's not real sure why she called. Harboring illusions that they would listen to her, much less believe her, when it came to her concerns about anything had melted permanently away from her when she'd left home nearly two decades ago.

So why does she still let it bother her?

Her real worry, she supposes, is that they no longer were listening to Rory. To what Rory really wanted: A career.

And she'd always thought there was hope for Rory (to be heard) as far as her parents were concerned.

But it's out of her hands now.

She knows this. She'd let her fear and emotion speak for her.

Never a good idea.

The light blue sweater was definitely a better choice, she thought again, as she continued to stroll.

Oh, cute! A pet store! Lop-eared rabbits in the window. Sweet.

There'd been no real choice to make those two decades ago. Having Rory and Leaving Home remained Rock Solid Choices by her to this day (marrying Christopher hadn't even been a blip on the screen.)

And, she's fine. She really is. Great even.

For twenty years now, she has made the best of it. _Always_ the best of it.

No money for toys? Well, make up a game, by God! No money for clothes? Learn to sew. Television broken? Head to the square to play 'One Two Three He's Yours'. Boyfriend who loves you but doesn't want kids? _Buh-bye_. Career? Scrub the toilet and be glad for the sprawl of loose change left behind on the bureau.

Her character was built, dammit.

She slips into the Starbucks then and orders a decadent, over-priced concoction with whipped cream. She watches the expensively dressed kids talk on cell phones, then slip them into Prada bookbags. She wonders which will be the doctor she goes to see in a few years, or the broker her father considers, or the socialite her mother cultivates.

Once out on the high street again, she thinks about calling Rory.

But knows she'll be hung up on as she has the last three times she's tried.

Rory has made her choice for now.

She can only sincerely hope that it doesn't include petty thievery in some of Connecticut's finest homes.

She has a sudden memory then of the day Rory got her very own library card. How excited she was. How Sookie made a cake to celebrate! Making the best of _that _day had been effortless.

She thinks about Luke then.

His loving her so much that he both wants her to stretch her wings and doesn't. Silly man is afraid. Thinks he is only Stars Hollow. Still doesn't fully believe how fiercely she loves him back.

As far as she's concerned it's another in the handful of the Rock Solid Choices.

But does she have it within her to run her Inn _and _consult?

She never did go to a real college.

_You can do anything_, Luke has told her over and over through the years. You can go to school, you can run your own Inn, you can be a professional out in the wide, wide world. Anything.

_You can_.

A warmth spreads through her then. He has believed in her in a way her parents never have. He has listened and heard her.

She's always Made The Best of It. Made Do. Because she had to.

So she's not real sure how to go about choosing more. Or, if she should.

_You can_.

She stops then in front of a Travel Agent. The poster before her shows vineyards in Burgundy. An enormous blue sky spreading above. It's dizzying. Limitless. She lowers her eyes to read the caption sprawled boldly across the lush purple grapes...

_You deserve it._

She takes a deep breath then...

_You can._

And pulls her phone from her purse, "Mike..." she begins...

_You can._

When she's finished talking, she snaps the phone shut and strides into the Travel Agency with her chin up...

And buys two tickets.

_You can._

Afterwards, she plans on picking up the capri pants. Luke should have some new clothes too. And some sandals. She laughs out loud at that. _Luke in sandals!_

She wonders then what his ring size is.


	21. Blame

5.21_ Blame Booze and Melville _episode addition. Somewhere-the-hell in the middle.

Spoiler warning for finale.

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_It's her own damn fault._

Well, not totally her own. It's Luke's damn fault too.

She spins around and glares at Kirk.

"But I'm taking it out on _you_!" she shouts. "And that pineapple is too green. Pick out another one!"

She turns and continues her march down the aisle.

Kirk heaves the produce-laden basket he's been toting around Doose's onto his other arm, and exchanges said pineapple.

"Lorelai, I've apologized a hundred times..." he whines at her.

She stops and holds up her hand without looking at him, "Silence, you little... _fear biter_, you!"

Kirk gasps, "I told you that in confidence!"

She whirls on him again.

"Confidence? _Confidence_, Kirk? Does that have something to do with _keeping a secret _perhaps?"

That shuts him up for a moment or two.

"Oh, yay! Brussels' Sprouts! I'll take half a pound, please."

Kirk sighs as he puts her basket on the floor and begins to fill a bag with sprouts before he decides to try again.

"Lorelai, _seriously_, how could I know that you would be in the produce aisle at the _exact moment _I happen to choose to express my disappointment to Taylor over losing the Twickham House? You and I both know that you haven't been in produce since the Great Lettuce Issue of ninety-seven."

She ignores him and shops on.

"I'll now have one head each: Broccoli, Cauliflower, and Broccoliflower."

"Lorelai, _everyone _knows your aisle is two: Hostess Fruit Pies, Ring Dings, Devil Dogs, and Nair."

She turns on him again, "What's your point, Kirk?"

"My point is," tries Kirk, near tears now, "_My point is _that you were in the wrong damn aisle!"

"Radishes, Kirk."

"We even call it the Lorelai-Aisle behind your back."

"And one of those white things, that Mexican vegetable—Whatchamacallit? I'll try one."

"Jicama."

"Right, Jicama.."

She turns then and smiles at him sweetly, "The thing is, Kirk, you see, that was Luke's secret. Luke's secret surprise to share. With me."

"I know."

"And now you've spoiled it."

"Couldn't you pretend to not know?" he whimpers.

"Of course, I can, Kirk. _But I still would know_, now wouldn't I? You can't un-ring a bell, Kirk."

"No, I guess not."

"So," she smiles again, scaring him into shudders, "Here's how it's gonna be, Mr. Richy McRich OddJob the Third. _Number One_: You will not _ever_ let on to Luke that you spilled the beans."

"Absolutely not. You have my word of honor."

"_Number Two_: Your. Ass. Is. Mine. For the next twenty-four hours."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Oh, grab that parsnip, will you? There's a dear. And finally, _Number Three, _and this one's important so pay attention: Do. Not. Ever. Be. Naked. In. Public. Again."

"It's never been gratuitous!"

"I mean it, Kirk. Not even as an artistic choice. Got it?"

He sighs audibly.

"Got it. So what's next?"

"Dry Cleaners, Jewelry Store, and Bookshop. Now let's go pay for these vegetables."

She plots and plans as pathetic Kirk puppydogs after her around town. But she's so very sure. And that is a thrilling thing. And apparently, to her amazement, to her delighted surprise, Luke is sure too.

Once back in her kitchen, she unburdens Kirk and sends him out to wash the jeep. Even though it's dark out already.

She stands perfectly still for a moment before walking over and kicking the thingy on the front of the refrigerator until it falls off.

She then puts a few key items away before walking to the phone.

"Luke?" she says when he answers, her heart beating all get out. "I've got an appliance emergency, babe... It's the refrigerator... Twenty minutes?... Wonderful. Thanks, hun... Yeah, love you too."

It only takes her fifteen minutes to put on the black satin slip dress she's just retrieved from the Dry Cleaners. One to put on lipstick and perfume. One more to get down the champagne glasses which read 'You go to my head', and set the chilled sparkling cider next to them. And another to slip the 'What to Expect for Idiots' book in a giftbag.

That leaves her two to take some deep breaths and pop an altoid.

And suddenly Luke's there with Bert, who is quickly forgotten when the spaghetti strap of the black satin dress slips off her shoulder almost on purpose.

And he's backed her against the refrigerator and they're making out like kids until she stops him and asks him to look at the broken thingy.

"Now?"

"I don't want anything to spoil."

He sighs and compliments her romantic timing but kneels down to look at the damage, anyway.

"What the hell did you do, kick it?" he shakes his head.

But he goes ahead and removes the thingy and then bends down to look behind it.

She sits on the floor next to him, her back against the cabinets and marvels at his thick, dark lashes and the thousand butterflies that are flying around within her.

"It looks like there's something wedged in here..." he says.

"Really? Huh, weird. What is it?" she plays dumb.

He withdraws a small black box, then looks at it a moment, then up at her.

She unblinkingly meets his eyes. Still sure.

"Open it," she whispers.

But he's watching the way her red lips pucker when she whispers and doesn't hear her.

So she places her hand on his arm.

"Luke, _open it_," she repeats.

He does. And it's a simple, hammered platinum band. He stares dumbly at it a moment and then looks at her again.

"Luke Danes," she says out loud, "I love you with my whole heart. And am only sorry that it took so many years for me to find that out. Will you do me the honor of becoming my husband? I... I have vegetables," and she points to the table to prove it.

His gaze follows her direction and he sees the vegetables and then turns to look at her again.

"Yes," he says and smiles somewhat shyly.

She laughs and cries a little, and throws herself into his arms then, and when they come up for air, she looks at him a long moment before speaking once more...

"Luke, there's something else you need to know..." she begins.


	22. Home

5.22 _A House is Not a Home _episode addition. A week later.

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**FROM**: dragonladyatnertzdotnet

**SEND TO**: bibliophileatnertzdotnet

**SUBJECT**: The Future

I know you are still in no mood to talk to me, and that's fine.

The little tiny window of speaking time your cell phone allows for messages is pathetic, by the way.

But there's stuff that can't wait.

_Actual _stuff, in fact.

I've had Kirk load up a u-haul with your things I already schlepped back here. I know you must want them. And know for a fact that life without that blue pillow, for you, is impossible.

Ordinarily I'd crook my irresistible little finger at Luke and borrow his truck to bring everything to you, but for now this seems a better idea. So, Mr. Gleason's Moving Service will call you tomorrow to set up a delivery time. I have already paid him, so don't let him tell you otherwise.

So on to us... and me.

Me first! Me first!

Luke and I are engaged!

Yes, I am going to be the future Mrs. Backwards Baseball Cap and he Mr. Gilmore (we're still in negotiations on that.)

I was sitting in the diner while he was ranting away and feeling so alone... and then I looked up at him and _just knew_, Rory.

Just knew that I'd found home. In Luke. After all these years. I may not be as smart as I think I am.

He was ranting on in that sexy way of his and I knew that no one would ever love me the way he does, or support me, or put up with me, or feed me... or... Well, I'll leave the rest to your imagination.

He's it for me, kid. And, wonder or wonders, _I am it _for him. Hah! Poor guy.

So I was watching him rant and when he stopped to breathe, _I proposed_.

I am woman here me roar, baby!

He was floored, to say the least. Told me I was crazy even...

But then, after wrangling and so on, we talked, kiddo, _really talked _about all the things we want.

We stayed up all night and had this terrifyingly grown-up conversation, but it was so wonderful, Rory.

_We_ _want each other_.

_He_ wants to live in The Twickham House of all places. It's always been a dream of his to restore it. So he's bought it for us! And he wants _me_ to be happy—to realize my potential in my work too. He actually thinks I have potential! So I've worked out a deal to do some consulting with Mike Armstrong now and then, with Luke's blessing, which could mean travel—for both of us! And I get to keep my beautiful Inn.

And, hold on to your hat little lady, but _Luke wants kids! _Who knew? The plural form might be a bit much for me at this point in life, but who knows? All we do know is that we are going to work it out together.

Work, home, family... the whole package.

He's my miracle man.

And you're still my miracle girl.

And I can't have it all without you, Little Me.

So do what you need to do, Rory. And then find your way back.

It' taken a lot of thinking on my part this week (no cracks, please), but I've let go, honey. I have. All those years we worked so hard... well, it became my goal too that you have Harvard or Yale or whatever school you wanted. And, of course, I'm disappointed for you and for myself. But, I will suck it up and move on.

I have before and I will again.

I believe in you and know you will find your own best way. You're Rory Gilmore, dammit!

And please know that I will always be here if you need me, for any reason. That's what being a mom is about.

I will add one last thing, Rory, and then shut up. I'm the mom so I get to.

Regret can become a soul-sucking thing in life, honey. Think about that. It gets inside you like one of those creepy little Star Trek aliens and crawls around making you do horrible things to yourself (which is why I hate that show, despite the groovy boots.)

And most of the time it feeds on fear.

So take this and hear it without an eye roll please: You cannot know what the regret of missed opportunity in life is until much further down the old yellow brick road. Say, when you're knocking on forty.

It is not an easy thing to see your friends pursue their dreams without you. It is not easy to let your own go, even when circumstances dictate it. Hey, we make the best of what we have, but when we are twenty it is still all ahead to be grabbed and achieved. It's scary I know, honey, but it's still there. And it won't be later. Which is when the regret part comes in.

So if you do take this time, use it well. Don't squander it on DAR doily-dos. If you take this time to find yourself, then do so.

I already know how wonderful you are so it shouldn't take too long for you to figure it out too.

The plan is to be married at The Dragonfly on the fourth of July, then watch the fireworks after a perfect Sookie dinner. Just Luke and me standing up before a judge, that's all. Simple. If Luke wore a tux, I think I'd be laughing my ass off too hard to say 'I do'! The image is just wrong in so many ways.

Of course we want you there. I will also send an invite to Richard and Emily. I know you would want me to.

So home has to be redefined for all of us this summer, I guess. But you will always have one in my heart.

I will be in the courtroom on the third, whether you want me there or not.

I've told Kirk to stop and pick up a cup of Luke's coffee for you on the way to dropping your stuff off.

I know it tastes like home.

I love you and am proud of you and can't wait to see you set the world on fire! I know you will!

Love, Mom

P.S. Luke's taking me on surprise honeymoon afterwards. I can't get a thing out of him on it which makes wardrobe decisions excruciating, though light layers is always the best way to go, I've heard. So, it'll be farewell to Stars Hollow for awhile for me!

P.P.S. Send my green sweater home with Kirk!

P.P.P.S. I am keeping your pink one. If you want it—Come and get it!

Love you. Bye.


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